Idiosyncrasies
by oleanderhoney
Summary: John always knows what Sherlock needs. He is there to pick up the pieces after he kills a man for the first time. Pre-slash.
1. Burning Memories

**AN: OCD and the fact that Sherlock has had to kill a man in cold blood for the first time. John is there to pick up the pieces. Pre-slash if you squint. Thanks for reading. Still really new at this and feedback is most helpful.**

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Sherlock may be a master at observing anything and everything, but John is the master at observing _him._ He's always had a knack with people, probably why he makes such a good doctor. He's exceedingly good at picking up social cues and individual idiosyncrasies; what a person's body language says based on their mood, and recognising changes in tones of voice so he could adjust according to what the situation called for.

Lestrade calls him "peace-keeper" in the sense he can temper the room when Sherlock rattles victims unwittingly, or when he tears down the fruitless veils of Donovan's personal life and riles Anderson up with comments on his base intelligence. A tight-lipped smile of sympathy, or a reprimanding _'Sherlock,' _and the tension eases. He assumes that's why Lestrade likes having him around so much.

He also assumes Sherlock likes having him around for precisely the same reason even though he would be loathe to admit such a thing. But that's fine because John can tell.

Just like he can tell when Sherlock has had enough of people when his shoulders tense and his eyes flick back and forth mapping out all the exits. It's times like these where John places a hand on his shoulder, and feels the tension ease slightly. John always knows what Sherlock needs.

John also knows about Sherlock's rituals. They are complicated and necessary and they keep him from spilling over. He knows Sherlock works in threes, and makes sure not to touch the door or the light switch until Sherlock has checked. And for his sake, John pretends _not_ to notice when Sherlock makes his daily circuit around the flat at least twice, touching the same things in the same order, _tap tap tap,_ casually and almost absent-mindedly. He also learned pretty quickly that there is a method to the general chaos of Sherlock's things, and stopped trying to clean or move the stacks of paper and odd trappings and knick-knacks, and every time Mrs. Hudson takes his skull, John silently retrieves it before it's missed.

And when there's a "Danger Night" John knows it's about more than just checking the drawers and under the loose floor board. He knows he can't leave the flat on those nights, and he lets Sherlock check his pulse three times before he heads to bed so he can ease the burning memories of Semtex and flickering lights from his friend's mind.

He notices all this and more, but he doesn't catch on to the obvious until it's too late.

_'It's worse than it's ever been, you know,' _Mycroft had said after the incident at the pool. _'Caring is not an advantage for Sherlock Holmes.'_

_'We manage.'_

_'No you mistake me, Doctor Watson. Just because it isn't advantageous, doesn't mean it isn't necessary.'_

_'What do you –?'_

_'You make him a better man. He needs you. Just be careful.'_

-oOo-

The dance with Moriarty is a vicious one.

It costs Sherlock more than his life. It costs him three. Three years each a lifetime in itself.

-oOo-

When Sherlock comes back standing on the stoop of 221B, John wants to scream and yell and punch him but before he can, a ragged gasp tears it self from Sherlock's lips.

"I killed him, John. Moran. He was the last one left. I had no choice. There was no one else to keep you safe, no one who could get to him fast enough." His voice is deadpan but he sways on his feet, and John catches him before he buckles.

Once in the flat Sherlock won't let him go even as they make their way to the sofa. He is shaking violently. His pale eyes are roaming over the flat taking in all that's changed in his absence. He takes to reciting the periodic table under his breath, a technique John knows keeps him from panicking. When he gets stuck on Chromium and his breath hitches, John is prepared for the snap, and he grabs Sherlock's hand and forces him to look into his eyes.

"I'm here," he says and presses Sherlock's fingers into the pulse at his neck. "I'm right here. See?" But he does not see. His eyes are glazed and fixed.

"I shot him, John." The panic in his voice is visceral if not hidden by that steady monotone.

"I know."

"I couldn't – there was no other way."

"I know. You did good."

"He was looking right at me the whole time as I fired a bullet into his skull. He even _begged_ me just before I pulled the trigger. It was frightfully cliche." There were cracks in the layers now as a hysterical laugh rose to the surface only to be abruptly silenced with a sob.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. You did what you had to."

"He said he was going to cut out your heart –" The last was cut off by a choking gasp as Sherlock is suddenly pulled into another reality of fear and nightmare before John's eyes.

John throws his arms around the shaking man's shoulders before the attack can fully take place. Sherlock fights him at first, a basic animal instinct telling him to run, to get away. But John holds on tighter, and eases them both back on the sofa, crushing Sherlock to his chest. Sherlock is on top of him, his arms pinned between them, and his eyes are screwed shut.

"My heart is still beating, Sherlock," John says trying to pierce through the sheer terror his friend can't surface from.

"He said he was going to cut out your heart and make me watch. That's why I shot him when he begged for mercy," his bites out, his voice is harsh and bitter.

John can't see his face anymore as it is suddenly buried in his jumper as Sherlock hyperventilates. John grabs one of his hands again and firmly places it on his chest.

"Sherlock _look_ at me," he commands, and Sherlock obeys, his wild eyes seeking some sort of purchase. "Count them. I'm here I've got you. Now count them." Sherlock needs something solid, and something repetitive to tether him to the real world.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and then begins to count the beats of John's heart.

John doesn't move, or speak.

He keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock's because he knows_._

Even when the panic subsides, John doesn't say a word. He gently brings his hand up and guides Sherlock's head to rest against his chest so he can hear the steady thrum as he falls down into sleep.


	2. A Steady Rhythm

**AN: I wasn't expecting to continue this, but I got a request to make it a sequel. Don't know where it's headed yet. The not knowing is glorious. :D**

**Oh and I don't own the characters, just their angsty angst.**

**Thanks for reading! All of the marvelous feedback worked wonders for my creative juices.**

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Sherlock surfaces from unconsciousness to the sound of that steady pulse. It's strong and above all real, and it stops him from forgetting where he is. He doesn't have to dread opening his eyes this time worrying that he will be faced with the peeling wallpaper of another seedy hotel. He knows he is finally, finally home. No more running, no more looking over his shoulder. No more twisted wrenching feelings in his chest at the images of John _– laying in a pool of blood with a gaping hole in his chest, John with the letters I.O.U. burned into every inch of his flesh, John with his blank eyes staring, staring a look of terror frozen on his face – no!_ He closes his eyes. All of that is over now. The heart beneath him promised that with each beat.

He tilts his head up to look at John's face in the yellow street light sluicing its way through the window like liquid. It is relaxed and peaceful as he sleeps deeply. More than anything, Sherlock wants to see him open his eyes, but he won't disturb him. The compulsion to see the evidence, to make sure this isn't another trick is a strong one, however. He lowers his head again to hear that solid beat, valves opening and closing, pushing blood through out, channeling it back in, over and over; a steady rhythm. He wants to memorise the sound so he can pull it out for later like something tangible he can hold in his hands.

When he is calmer he looks back up at John and silently watches. He watches until the smoothness of his brow slowly begins to crease in worry, and the tension around his mouth pulls the corners down in a frown. His breathing becomes laboured, and he murmurs something indistinct. It is a painful sound, and Sherlock can feel the heart beneath him speed up a fraction.

No. This simply would not do.

He reaches up with his hand, hovering a moment over his cheek. He can feel the heat radiating off of him. Sherlock sits there unsure of whether to bridge the gap knowing that the contact will be strange and uncomfortable – the sense memory forever burned into his nerve endings like a brand – when John suddenly becomes more agitated, his muttered gibberish beginning to take on coherent words like _'please God'_ and _'no, stop'._ Sherlock abandons his reservations and places a cool palm against his fevered skin. After a moment, John's eyes flutter a little, but then he breathes out a sigh, his face slackening into restfulness once more. Sherlock slides his hand down to his neck so he can feel his pulse as it slows back to its peaceful state.

Then, just before dawn's fingers peel back the dark sky, he rises and makes his way to his bedroom. He hesitates, worried about what he will find inside. The rest of the flat is…disconcerting. Everything is different from what his vivid and near perfect photographic memory remembers. It's like superimposing a different scene on top of the old one, and the fact that they won't align into one cohesive image makes him frustrated and anxious. This familiar panic, it's ridiculous he knows, but every time he looks he can't help but be painfully aware of the differences, his mind working overtime to memorise every bit of minutiae in order to be recounted at a later time with impeccable accuracy. Chances are he won't find what he remembers to be his bedroom. He wouldn't be surprised if John had utilised the space for his own purposes. It would, after all, be ideal. An office perhaps for his writing, or storage room. He tries to tell himself before he opens the door that he wouldn't begrudge John at his attempts to move on. He tells his rational side that he wouldn't, but there is a small voice in the darkness that knows he absolutely would. He pushes the door open.

Except for a fine layer of dust, everything is exactly like it was. He releases a breath he didn't know he had been holding and his eyes flicker around the dim room.

_Dust is eloquent._ Yes, but now it is also something else. _Sad._ The fact occurs to him suddenly. He can't make sense of it. So he tries to see.

He see that John kept everything the same right down to the forgotten mug of tea (clean now) that was left on his bed side table the last time he was here. His blue dressing gown is thrown haphazardly over the ottoman in the corner simply waiting to be donned, and even his sock index is the way it was. The only thing that is markedly different is that his violin and music stand are propped in the corner closest to the door. He didn't see them at first when he walked in. He goes over to get a closer look, and he notices that the last piece he was composing is still open on the stand. A pencil and his bow rest on the lip as if he were merely interrupted and would to pick up where he left off once he got the chance. He reaches for the black case, and flicks open the silver latches, and runs his fingers up and down the strings now loose with neglect. The wrapped wire ridges buzz and hum against the pads of his fingers and resonate deep with in his bones. He brings up his hand and touches the tips to his hair to alleviate the sensation by twisting a smooth lock between his thumb and index. The raw sense memory fades, and he closes the case.

That's when he notices the case is not as dusty as the rest of the room and it has been opened frequently, the wood of his violin polished and taken care of. It makes sense, now. John tried to _keep_ him. Alive when there was no hope of his return.

The thought fills him with joy and guilt simultaneously. Unacceptable.

How long would he have kept his room intact as a mausoleum? He's glad that he did, but the question remains, and it is confusing. There are no signs of change really, aside from the small things he thinks are trivial now that he's in a familiar place and the swirling images of 'there' and 'not there' and 'should go' or 'shouldn't be' are gone for the time. There also aren't any indications of a girlfriend either. It's like everything for John…stopped. _Why?_

Sherlock is suddenly reminded of a recent conversation he had with Mycroft, his clear clinical tones ringing in his ears.

_'Are you sure it's wise?'_

_'Are you suggesting he continues to think I'm dead? After everything?'_

_'I'm simply asking if you think this is the best.'_

_'Of course why –?'_

_'For him, Sherlock. Best for him. Your death…he didn't take it well. He's finally starting to—'_

_'To what? Move on? Of course he is. John is a soldier. He's not made of glass, Mycroft.'_

_'You didn't see how he broke when you left.'_

_'What are you getting at? Be direct for once in your life.'_

_'His limp returned with the month.'_

_'I can fix it again.'_

_'Can you?'_

He would.

He goes back out and covers John's sleeping form with a blanket. His face is contorted in pain again, and his lips move in silent protest. It is then that Sherlock notices that something's changed. John has always been prone to nightmares for as long as he'd known him. But they were always a violent thing, and never twice in one night. Never this long-suffered and contained pain.

"Please, God," he says again. "No, stop."

The same dream maybe? John seems closer to the surface, his limbs becoming more restless, his hand grips the blanket. Sherlock kneels before him.

"What's wrong, John?" he says in what he hopes is a calming voice.

"I can't," he says, his eyes screwed tight, and his teeth gritted.

"What? Tell me."

"I can't save you, Sherlock. I can't…" he trails off, and his head begins to thrash from side to side.

"Hush," he commands, perhaps too hard, his voice is oddly rough. "None of that. Sleep now. I will be here when you wake up."

He hopes his words penetrate, because he can't bring himself to touch him again. His hands are shaking. The flat is too small. He has to leave for a moment, he needs to walk the shadowed streets of London and breathe in the damp smell of the Thames. He needs a cigarette.

_'I can fix it again.'_

_'Can you?'_

"Yes."

Mycroft be damned.


	3. Anchor

**AN: A little lighter, a little laughter. John is a saint basically.**

**Only own the Jabberwocky. Not the characters.**

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The nightmare is always the same. He is looking up at the dark figure of his friend standing on the ledge of the roof, his arm outstretched, reaching for him. He reaches back, _no, stop!_ and swallows back bile at the brokenness in Sherlock's voice. He can't actually hear the words, but he feels them. He will never forget them as long as he lives. It's the moment before Sherlock jumps that John knows there was something more he could have done, and then the crushing moment after when he realises that no, no there was _nothing_ he could have done except watch over and over, until he was punished thoroughly in this grey purgatory for letting one of the most brilliant and _human_ people he had ever known fall from grace. When he was in Afghanistan bleeding out on that scorched desert he would have given anything not to die _please god!_ and now he would give it all back so Sherlock could live. Please, God.

He startles awake at the obnoxious sound of the lorry truck outside the window, and it takes him a moment to register he fell asleep on the sofa. It takes him another moment to realise what he was doing there in the first place, and he launches himself up in a panic.

"Sherlock?" he calls, and pokes his head in the kitchen, then makes his way down the hall.

The door to Sherlock's old room is ajar slightly, and John's breath catches in his throat. He pushes it open and is greeted with crashing emptiness like always. Empty room. Empty flat.

He runs upstairs to grab his jacket.

-oOo-

The ninth step to the flat is limbo. Sherlock has been stuck on it for a good four hours. He couldn't make himself go any farther, and yet he couldn't bring himself to go back in. He attributes this feeling well to when he was in Moscow, trapped and adrift. Not existing as anybody, not really. Bouncing from one alias to the next until he nearly forgot himself. It was easier to pretend he was someone else. It was easy to believe the lie that way, that he was in fact a sociopath. It wasn't until the car ride back from Mycroft's that he realised what he, Sherlock Holmes, had done. And then when John had opened the door, he had to tell someone, tell _him_ like a condemned man entering a confessional, just to get the burning in his chest to stop and wash the blood off of his hands. It was either that, or turn back around and search for the nearest fix. This was also why it was probably a good thing he was stuck here at the moment. He sat completely still for the longest time with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, desperately trying to delete things he knew would be burned into him forever.

The door to the flat suddenly bangs open, and John's urgent (uneven) footfalls hurry across the landing. Sherlock jumps to his feet just as he skids to a halt at the top of the stairs, one arm hastily shoved into his jacket. At first there is relief on his face, and then the relief suddenly fades. His eyes are hard, and his jaw is clenched, and Sherlock shifts his weight not entirely sure what to do with his hands. He settles with shoving them into his coat pockets.

"Bloody christ, Sherlock!" he yells, anger rolling off of him in waves. It is a palpable thing, and edged with fear. He grips the banister to ease some of the weight off of his bad leg. He's trying not to show it, but Sherlock notices. "You can't just – you could have –"

" – told you. I know," he finishes. Then after a beat, it occurs to him how much this applies to a different, much bigger issue at heart. "I apologise," he says, hoping to convey just how much.

John snaps his mouth shut, and surprise flickers over his face followed by a flash of pain. The anger is still there, but it is torn between something else Sherlock can't identify. It never ceases to amaze him at how many emotions can pass over John Watson's face in an instant, and he's made it his goal to catagorise each and every one. It frustrates yet intrigues him when he comes across one he doesn't have a name for, and he files it away for further consideration.

He knows he should probably say something but for reasons unknown to him, his throat feels tight under the weight of his gaze. Finally, John throws his hands up in indignation and stomps back into the flat, slamming the door in his wake.

It is quiet upstairs for a while, and Sherlock listens intently. Suddenly it sounds as if John has been spurred into a flurry of activity, and there is a considerable amount of banging around and swearing, and oddly enough, what sound like moving furniture…

Out of curiosity Sherlock makes it to the tenth step before he remembers where he is, his foot hovering over number eleven before he snaps it back down.

He wavers there for what feels like a long time, willing himself up to the next one, but the sudden, clammy heat under his collar stops him. Aggravated, he gives up and sits back down. He presses his palms together and touches the tips of his fingers to his chin as he pulls out his mental map of London. He closes his eyes and traces route after route to all of his favorite spots, and tries to visualise what all might have changed in three years. The thought strikes him that this new London might not be his London anymore, and he rationalises that it's probably a good thing he's stuck in limbo because so far, limbo is the only place that makes sense to him; it is the only thing that isn't transient. Torn between what he was, what he had to do, and the uncertainty of what happens next. The enormity of this introspection causes his breath to hitch, and he tries to stifle the fact that at some point he will eventually have to stand and look into the light that terrifies him, or descend further into hell.

His eyes fly open when he hears an exaggerated sigh above him, breaking the spell. He looks over his shoulder and up at John standing there with his hands on his hips, glaring at him. Sherlock rises to his feet again slowly, and scans his face. John's expression is equal parts admonishing and exasperated, but the crinkles around his eyes are warm. It is a familiar expression, one that he wears well around Sherlock like an old jumper, and he feels the tightness in his chest loosen.

"Quit being a twat and come up stairs," he says.

Sherlock looks down at his feet in panic. He doesn't know what to say that doesn't sound completely humiliating or downright insane. _I can't. Obviously I'm in limbo, John, can't you tell?_ Ridiculous. He opens his mouth, but words evade him.

John arches his eyebrows; an almost teasing expression plays across his face that suddenly makes Sherlock's temper rise. He isn't sure if the flush he feels spreading up his neck is from anger at being mocked, or shame.

"Come to the flat. At once," John says again, his arms folding over his chest. There's something in his tone that arrests Sherlock's attention. "If convenient." Before he has a chance to really respond, John saunters off. Sherlock desperately wants to follow, and he makes an abortive gesture to do so, but his feet stay glued to the stair. "If inconvenient, come anyway," John calls one last time from around the corner.

The words are like a key slotting the tumblers in place and unlocking him. He feels his heart thud painfully in his chest, and takes the rest of the stairs two at a time wanting nothing more than to escape that metaphysical grey he had trapped himself in.

He barges into the lounge and grinds to a halt. John is standing in the middle of the room with his arms still folded, watching him silently, expectantly. He looks around in bewilderment.

John changed the flat. Not much but he changed it _back_ to some semblance of what he remembers. The writing desk is no longer flush to the wall, but sticking out perpendicular like it was, the smallish coffee table is back to being in front of the sofa, his armchair has been cleared and is no longer an extra surface, and his music stand is back to being under the window. They are small changes, but it lessens the glaring contradictions of that transparent overlay in his head. He looks back to John who now has a slight smile, and he tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock turns to see what he is looking at, and is greeted with the familiar sight of his Bunsen burner, test tubes, and various flasks and beakers lining the table. He walks over, and touches each and every one of them, and makes a mental note to restock the curio cabinet with more chemicals, when he sees the microscope on the worktop across from him. He grabs it and places it on the table, one of his familiar _touchstones_that John held onto. He adjusts the eye pieces and taps the base three times. Everything is starting to feel more right by the second. He spins around and spots his second _touchstone,_ the kettle, and taps. Relief floods through him bit by bit, as he makes his way back out to where John is.

"How do you feel about the violin?" John asks quietly, that small smile tugging his lips still. "I've grown quiet accustom to it. It helps me think."

Sherlock stares at him and he prompts with a full out grin. He thinks this is ridiculous, but can't stop himself from playing along. John's smile is infectious.

"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he blurts. He suddenly notices the skull on the mantle and crosses to it. John follows, still watching as he brushes his fingers over it and taps three times.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," John remarks sagely.

Sherlock turns to him, and is surprised to find that his eyes are stinging. Never has he been so capitulated by such a rush of…of _gratitude._ The emotion that threatens to overwhelm him is almost too much, and in that instant he wants to run and hide his weakness from those benevolent blue eyes. Guilt, from god knows where, rises to the surface again, but before he can make sense of this, John crinkles his nose in distaste.

"No hang on. Something's missing," he says. He looks around for a moment before his eyes light up, and he pulls something out of his pocket. He then goes over and grabs a stack of mail and drops in soundly on the mantle. The object in his hand, a folding RAMC knife, is flicked open, and without hesitation John sinks it into the stack with a thunk, pinning it to the soft wood. He admires his handy work, and then with a sharp nod declares, "There."

"Bills?" Sherlock asks arching an eyebrow. John frowns at the realisation and leans forward to get a better look.

"Ah," is all he says. They both regard the knife their heads simultaneously tilting to the left, before their eyes alight on each other once more.

Someone, Sherlock can't remember who, starts to chuckle, and before he knows it they are both full out laughing and clutching their sides, John nearly doubled all the way over and Sherlock gripping the mantle with both hands, his head bowed between his shaking shoulders. He shakes his head, grateful that he has another excuse for the moisture in his eyes.

"Bugger," John gasps at last wiping his eyes, and makes his way to the kitchen still sniggering. "Tea?"

"Yes you probably better," says Sherlock, and just like that a small part of him is put back in place. He flops down in his chair, and idly fingers the glass ashtray on the small table beside him, tapping it three times and smiling as John begins to whistle a tune over the sounds of the kettle as it starts to boil.

-oOo-

That evening, after a bit of Chinese and crap telly, they sit in front of the fire in companionable silence. John reads a mystery 'whodoneit' novel while Sherlock stares into the flames. He contemplates telling him that the main character's brother is obviously the killer based on the synopsis on the back and the picture of the author, but what comes out instead is:

"Why?"

"Why what?" he asks absently, not looking up from the page. When Sherlock doesn't answer he finally tears himself away the question still in his eyes. Sherlock gestures to the flat for more clarity. John looks down for a second, then regards him with that curious expression again, the look that has no name. Before Sherlock can place it, however, he shrugs nonchalantly, "Because."

He frowns. He doesn't like his questions going unanswered and he is about to say as much before he realises with shocking clarity it really is the answer. This simple, unassuming word says everything that can be said, and much more that can't.

It is utterly perplexing. Like always John Watson is composed of multifaceted layers.

Fantastic.


	4. Beautiful Terrible

**AN: This chapter I wanted to showcase the cruelty of men. Be forewarned, this is a lot heavier than the last chapter, and there is a brief description of torture.**

**_"I had to keep telling myself, I got to survive and I got to tell the world what one human being can do to another."_**

**_-Bernie Sayone, Holocaust Survivor._**

* * *

John Watson is angry. It's taken him four months to get over the shock of Sherlock's return, and for him to come to terms that this is indeed what he is. He wants to beat something to death with his fists, he's so angry - angry with Moriarty and the devastation he left in his wake, and if he's honest with himself, he's angry with Sherlock too. Furious even. But he denies this part of him, and secretly wonders how long he can continue to force it down on top of the fact that deep down he knows things have fundamentally changed between them.

Most of the time they seem to be back to normal. Even though Sherlock was exonerated, he still wasn't cleared to visit crime scenes, but Lestrade tried to involve him anyway he can with cold case files to take the edge off his boredom. He says he knows how Sherlock can get, and how it must be driving John up the walls. Lestrade couldn't be more wrong, however, because for the first time, John notices that Sherlock _isn't _bored for once in his life. In fact he seems fascinated by this ordinary life he left behind at 221b Baker Street, and this alarms him. Only John notices the cracks in the armour.

At first it's the normal fare: Sherlock's discordant violin playing at three in the morning, his natural rituals he slipped back into, his long days of silent contemplation spread out on the sofa. But there are new things that John doesn't know what to make of. Like Sherlock's newest obsession that the ninth stair must be skipped at all costs, and his sudden unease at being left on his own for too long. John takes fewer shifts at the surgery, and simultaneously tries to keep his patience.

It wasn't until John mistakenly had a cup of coffee strong enough to melt the enamel off his teeth, (compliments of Sherlock) that he realised the cracks were bigger than he thought. He starts to see that not only does Sherlock not want to sleep, but that he is afraid to. He also doesn't eat in front of John, if at all, and any time John tries to get him to, he is met with more hostility than usual. Eventually, though, the sight of the increasing sharpness of Sherlock's features combined with his belligerent refusal to eat causes John's temper to finally boil over.

-oOo-

John needed to get some groceries for the flat, and when he announced this, Sherlock, like usual as of late, was only too eager to accompany him.

All up and down the aisles of Tesco, Sherlock rattles off theories, and scientific facts, occasionally deducing someone that passes them by the contents of their basket, when he suddenly stops cold. John doesn't notice at first, too busy comparing the prices between two brands of canned pears, until the adjacent cans of peaches hit the tile.

John looks around and sees Sherlock clutching the shelving, his knees buckling, and his eyes set wide in his pale sunken face. He drops the basket and rushes to his side, supporting him under the shoulders and around his waist. He ignores the people staring at them, and quickly ushers them out to get some air. John can tell just by touch that he's down more than a stone. And right then he wants to throttle the man, and possibly himself for letting it get this far. Outside, he leaves him against the wall, and finds the nearest vending machine, angrily punching in the numbers for a fruity picnic bar.

"Eat," he commands thrusting it at him. Sherlock's eyes grow wide in alarm for a second, only to be replaced by fury.

"Piss off!" he snarls and shoves past. John follows him, having to trot a little to catch up due to his long strides. Sherlock makes it to the side of the main road and hails a cab. He gets in and slams the door in John's face.

"Sherlock!"

The cab pulls away, without a backward glance from Sherlock. Fuming, John goes back inside Tesco's to finish the shopping because, _goddammit_.

Surprisingly, he makes it back to the flat before Sherlock does, and he is waiting for him in the kitchen with a plate of toast and a protein shake. They stare at each other for a moment in challenge before Sherlock promptly walks over, plucks the toast off the plate, and tosses it in the bin.

John's vision goes red around the edges, and for the first time lets out the beast of his anger. He takes the forgotten plate and dashes it against the wall. Sherlock flinches, caught off guard, never having seen John's potent violence directed toward him.

"What are you playing at?" he roars. "What, dying once wasn't good enough for you, now you want to make me watch again as you destroy yourself?"

"John I -" Sherlock's eyes are wide, and his face pales even more. "Please, you're hurting me."

It's the waver in Sherlock's voice that brings John back to reality. He hadn't realised that he had crowed the other man back into the table, or that he had grabbed his wrist and was now wrenching it tightly. Sherlock stares at him obliquely, a coldness to his features, but John could feel the faint tremor that belied his composure. He drops Sherlock's wrist as if it were a hot iron, and retreats to the farthest end of the kitchen.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean –"

"Don't," he says in sharp warning and straightens himself to his full height. John can't help but notice how he sways slightly, undercutting his imperiousness. Without looking John in the eye he walks out of the kitchen back to his room. John waits for the slamming of his door, but he only hears a muted click of resignation. He doesn't emerge for the rest of the night.

To assuage his guilt, John makes up another plate of toast with jam and leaves it on the table before going to bed.

The nightmares come at him with a vengeance, and he jerks awake some time later, drenched in sweat and reaching for his gun that he thankfully keeps locked in his bureau. He heaves himself up and paces the floor trying to burn off the adrenaline prickling under his skin. When the edge subsides, he looks at the clock on his dressing table. At nearly five in the morning, he figures it's too late to try and get some more rest, doubting that he'd be able to fall asleep anyway.

He makes his way to the kitchen to make some tea (no coffee, perhaps that potent battery acid Sherlock likes) and stops short.

Sherlock is sitting at the table, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his blue dressing down wrapped tightly about him like a cocoon. He's staring at the plate of toast John left out as if it were a picture of a crime scene. He's concentrating so hard, John realises he doesn't know he's there. Watching him feels oddly voyeuristic.

Slowly, Sherlock unfolds himself and places both palms on the table bracketing the plate as if it were an enemy he needed to beat into submission. He stares it down, his eyes burning like a furnace, and after a moment picks up a slice and brings it to his lips. He goes to take a bite, but then freezes, his mouth snapping shut, and his breath coming out fast and ragged through his nose.

John was a man well acquainted with fear, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man in front of him was terrified. But no, it wasn't just that. John had seen this look before on his own face and the faces of his fellow soldiers – this was the face of war, and Sherlock Holmes was battling one of his greatest enemies: his mind.

He brings the toast up to his lips one more time, and silently John is cheering _come on Sherlock, you can do it Sherlock, it's all fine, you're fine _when the battle abruptly ends with the plate and the toast being swept off the table in frustration. Sherlock, breathing heavily, looks around in a daze, and suddenly their eyes lock. That panic returns and he scrambles to his feet, intent on escaping, but before he can John comes straight to him and braces him gently by his upper arms.

John was expecting an instant struggle, maybe even a few punches thrown, God knew he deserved it. And he would let Sherlock drive his fists into him over and over if it would help release his pain. What he wasn't expecting, however, was for Sherlock to crumble, putting his head down on John's shoulder as if his strings had been cut. Shocked, John just stands there and tries to reassure, squeezing his arms gently. They stay like that for a few minutes until John can find his voice again.

"Hey. All right?" he sooths. Sherlock shakes his head against him, and John wished he could see his face.

"It was Helsinki, John. _Hell_-sinki," he emphasises with an utterly shattered laugh, his voice muffled and wrought tight with bitter irony. He trembles with exhaustion and hunger, and John figures he was the only thing holding him up at the moment. He guides him to sit in the chair again, and then takes a few steps back running a hand over his face.

Looking at Sherlock's haunted stare causes the doctor in him to scream_ heal! protect! make better!_ but he was completely at a loss. The only thing he could do was make tea and hope to God that Sherlock would keep talking, because if he didn't, it would continue to fester and tear him apart. He wasn't a therapist, but he knew that much.

Sherlock doesn't even register when John set the freshly brewed cuppa in front of him. After a moment, John slides the cup closer, and Sherlock flinches, eyes snapping to his as he surfaces from his reverie.

"What happened in Helsinki, Sherlock?" John prompts.

Sherlock shakes his head and wraps his hands around the warm cup, pulling it to him. He doesn't drink, however, but rolls the ceramic between his palms as he thinks. It's a while before he speaks, and John having long drunk his tea, waits patiently.

"I was pursuing a lead from a source I thought was solid at the time. It turned out it was a trap, and I was held hostage for a month. It was all a ruse to get to Mycroft, but the stubborn bastard wouldn't give in to their demands," there is a bitter satisfaction to his tone, and he pauses to sip his now cold tea. "They got more…creative with their methods as time went on."

"What –" John clears his throat and tried to tramp down a wave of nausea. He's dreading where this is headed, images of blood, sand, and torture flash through his mind. "What do you mean they got more creative?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock rises to his feet, pacing in short and angry steps. He pauses a few times muttering under his breath before he turns his back to John, fisting his hands into his hair until his knuckles turn white. A raw, savage groan of frustration, laced with pure anguish, tears itself from his lips. In that moment John wanted nothing more than to rip the throat out of anyone who ever caused Sherlock to make such a broken sound.

Suddenly, Sherlock whips around and the feral look of fear and brutality on his face makes John's skin hot and his blood cold simultaneously. He gets to his feet and slowly lessens the gap in between them. He doesn't want to ask it because he knows of pain and nightmares, but he knows Sherlock is right _there_, right on the brink of shattering the cage he's made for himself. So, with much trepidation, he provides the stone for his glass house.

"What did they do, Sherlock?"

It is said barely above a whisper, but it sounds like a clap of thunder…

All at once, it seems as if the air has been sucked out of the room leaving behind a sudden, deadening silence. Sherlock closes his eyes as a dark stillness settles over him. The battle rages on in Sherlock's mind as evidenced by the impossible tension coiling around his frame, and anyone else wouldn't have noticed the change, but not John. He could tell he was beginning to break…

"They constantly kept me on the edge between life and death," he says, still with his eyes screwed tightly shut. "The worst part was, they wouldn't let me end it myself. They would shove stale bread and water down my throat to prevent me from starving to death, but not enough to end the hunger. I resented it…I resented their measures to keep me alive more than –" he drew in a ragged breath, and began to undo the buttons on his silk pyjama shirt with shaking fingers. When he was done he paused for a moment, then let the top and the robe fall to the ground in a pool at his feet. "– more than I've ever resented this."

As a doctor, John knew that it was not physically or anatomically possible for the human heart to break, but in that moment he was sure his managed it completely.

All over Sherlock's chest and abdomen were scars raised to an angry white, and evidence of old, burn marks all at least second degree. John inhales a sharp painful gasp, and he has to turn a way for a second to control the onslaught of grief and all-consuming wrath stinging his eyes. When he looks back, Sherlock's head is bowed, and his arms are at his sides, palms turned outward as if in supplication.

It is the most _beautiful _and _terrible _thing John has ever seen.

Before he knows what he's doing, he closes the space between them completely and he can't stop his fingers from gently tracing every mark of blade, rope, and iron that dared mar Sherlock's beautiful alabaster skin as if his touch alone could cleanse and restore. Heal and erase.

Sherlock's breath hitches, his still-closed eyes fluttering under his lids, and he is shaking so hard now that John is afraid he might unravel before him. He goes to pull away, thinking it's too much too soon, when Sherlock blindly reaches out and fists his hands in his jumper.

"Please," he whispers. It sounds like a prayer.

"All right. All right," John murmurs, his hands coming up on either side of his face. Sherlock holds his breath and the shaking stops a little as if he is being anchored to the solid ground. Then, very slowly, very tenderly, John presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. If he could, he would pour everything he has into this man, let himself be used like a soothing balm, so that the gaping wound that threatens Sherlock's soul could be healed.

"John…?" Sherlock says, his eyes finally opening, searching.

"Turn around," John says quietly. Sherlock swallows hard, and then slowly complies.

John puts his hands on the pale sloping shoulders to steady himself as he is met with another roadmap of scars: lash marks he realises. They burnt him, and beat him, and whipped him with in an inch of his life, and then forced him to hold on and continue to live through the blinding pain and torture. It was John's turn to fold, and he presses his forehead to the middle of his back.

"It was the file that reminded me," Sherlock says, and John can feel the deep rumble of his voice echo through out him. "I had deleted it. But then one of the cold cases I looked into a few weeks ago, the Calico Killer…he kept his last victim alive for three months, and even when she couldn't eat because he had cut out her tongue, he pumped food into her, and tried to heal most of her wounds so he could start the cycle over again. And I – I –"

Before he can shatter completely, John spins him around and gathers him into a fierce embrace. They are sinking to the floor, now, neither one able to keep upright under the weight of cruelty they've seen and been subjected to. _The cruelty of ordinary men._

After the shaking in both of them subsides, they sit together on the floor against the cabinets in silence, their fingers intertwined. After a moment John squeezes his hand, and Sherlock turns to look at him.

"Don't delete it again," he says, his voice hoarse. Sherlock frowns. "It's important to remember who we fight against. It's important to remember that you are nothing like them."

His frown deepens as he considers this, and John can see the trepidation playing out over his face. Finally, he seems to reach a conclusion within himself, and nods slowly, turning back to stare straight ahead.

They sit there until the sun comes up.

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**Thank you for reading. Your feedback helps, and if there is anyone I forgot to say thank you to, this is for you. **

**I think one or two more chapters ought to do it.**


	5. Covenant

**AN: Hey all. I this chapter is short. I just wanted to show some more of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. More to come! And thank you for reading!**

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John Watson was probably the most complex and exceedingly frustrating puzzles Sherlock had ever come up against. At first it was brilliant, the not knowing suddenly taking hold when ever John did or said a certain thing, and that _look_. The look John would give him, only a handful of times now, that he still couldn't put a name to. He took to analysing the nuances of it in his mind, tearing it apart bit by bit, breaking it down into each separate component:

Brow furrowed, a crease between his eyes that only appeared when he was exceedingly emotional  
Lips pursed together almost in anger but not quite. He knew what anger looked like on John Watson, and there was more to it than that  
The corners of his mouth tense as if holding back a torrent  
The way his jaw quivered  
How he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to worry it before looking away  
and his eyes…  
Sherlock always left his eyes for last — even in the pseudo-version of John his eidetic memory conjured, those steel-blue orbs were the most potent and the most arresting…

They were always dark, the pupils wide, and something else flickered behind them, something he couldn't put his finger on but he settled with describing the something else as _fire_. There was fear there, that much he recognised, but this fear was different from what he'd previously seen. This was why he couldn't just pass the look off as simply fear or anger or frustration…and when John kissed him that night after having flung open the gates in his chest, the look was there stronger than it had ever been.

He decided after that, he didn't want to see that look anymore. It made him feel flayed and exposed, and caused his heart turn over painfully in his chest. It was…unsettling to say the least, but Sherlock didn't delete it, telling himself that this was part of the promise he made to John when they sat there watching the sun chase shadows across the kitchen floor.

Instead, Sherlock devoted himself to the other part of the enigma that was John Watson: his limp.

It had nearly been five months since Sherlock's return, and the limp steadily worsened, which was equal parts interesting, and frustrating. He was too stubborn to use his cane, but Sherlock could tell it was causing a strain on his friend in the way that his good leg was prone to cramping and fatigue due to over compensation. One night Sherlock attempted to deduce him into talking about it, and wouldn't listen when John told him to leave it be.

"It's about control, John. I don't understand why you just can't get passed it," Sherlock finally snapped, his patience unraveling.  
John blinked in shock a few times, what ever he was about to say next dying instantly on his lips. Then, with out a word he stood up trying his hardest to not wince, and walked out the door, leaving his phone and keys on the table. Looking back on it now, it was decidedly Bit Not Good.

Sherlock had been beside himself with an insane panic at having watched him leave, which, the rational part of his brain that wasn't susceptible to absurd anxiety realised was utterly ridiculous. Foolish. He had seen with his own eyes Moriarty's men as they were brought to their knees one by one. By his own hand even. He had _killed _Moran himself, hadn't he? Hadn't he…? He had to mentally shake himself. Of course he had. But was it enough to keep John safe?

No.

Obviously it wasn't or else he wouldn't have felt the fear because it wouldn't have a reason to exist otherwise.

He had to do something, he realised. He needed to make sure he could keep John safe before he could put him back together and deliver him the cure-all of danger and intrigue that had worked before. He sat in his chair with his fingers pressed to his lips as if in prayer, before he finally figured out a solution.

John had kissed his forehead as some kind of seal or covenant. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the sense memory of his dry, urgent lips as they pressed to his clammy forehead. It was a protection against the verisimilitude of his traitorous memory, and Sherlock recognised it as such. Perhaps…

He got up from his position, and stalked around the flat in agitation, before he found himself in the kitchen holding John's favourite mug. Pushing away his logical side that admonished him for being silly and superstitious, he pressed his lips to the cool ceramic. Instead of feeling ridiculous, he felt only relief. This would work. It had to.

For the next hour, Sherlock went about the flat room by room, 'sealing' various objects of John's, his laptop, his armchair, some of his favorite paperbacks, until he eventually made his way up to his room. He stood, at the threshold for a moment, at a loss at where to begin. In the end, he settled with his pillow and his gun he kept in the bed side table. Satisfied, he went to go back downstairs when something caught his eye. Hanging on the mirror over the dresser, was John's old dog tags. He walked over, and brushed his fingers against them.

John never wore them anymore, Sherlock knew, but on the off chance he ever did it might be good to protect them too. After all, they must be somewhat charmed seeing as how John had been wearing them when he had been shot. He kissed each one front and back for good measure, and with a definitive nod went back down stairs and flopped down on the sofa to think, his hands under his chin and his mobile pressed in between his palms.  
John came back about an hour later, and Sherlock held his breath. John didn't say anything; instead he just went to the kitchen and flicked on the hob. Sherlock finally exhaled as he listened to the rhythmic sounds of tea being made, and texted Lestrade:

_Holiday's over. I'm amenable if you have any cases in the near future. – SH_


	6. Ruined

**AN: Hello all! Sorry it's taken me a while to post anything. With moving and finals it has been crazy! Thank you for reading, and I am almost done with this one so hang in there. BTW this story shifts from pre-slash to slash. Thanks again!**

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John enters the dark flat at around three in the morning thoroughly exhausted from a twelve hour shift at the surgery.

Since Sherlock had recently rejoined society as the world's only consulting detective, his anxiety about being alone for too long had eased up considerably. He was back to feeding his massive brain with the complex and intriguing, and the cases couldn't come in fast enough.

On the flip side, his boredom was a force to be reckoned with, and his neurotic behaviour seemed to be getting worse. John tried not to say anything about it, of course, even though he did catch Sherlock kissing his mobile and keys at one point when he thought he wasn't looking. It was odd to say the least, but out of all his little idiosyncrasies this one was just a bit different. John couldn't put his finger on it, though; he only knew it made him sad to see Sherlock's fretted brow as he brought John's things up to his lips, and then carefully, oh so carefully, put them back exactly the way he found them. He was compensating far too much, his balance knocked off kilter, and John ached with the knowledge that something was deeply troubling his friend, and that he was most likely the cause of it. He was afraid he broke open proverbial flood gates of Sherlock's mind, and for the first time he began to doubt whether or not it was the right thing to do.

Case in point: it was a three weeks ago when the screaming started.

John knew Sherlock had been having nightmares ever since he got back, but they were nothing like this. The first time it happened, John nearly broke his leg flying down the stairs. He found Sherlock thrashing about on the sofa, tangled up in the blanket John covered him with before he went to bed himself. He figured the blasted thing was probably the cause for the terror.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John tried to untangle him without getting a knee to the chin. He had tugged gently at first, but when Sherlock whimpered, John retreated not wanting to distress him even more. Nightmares were usually best sorted if they ran their course. He knew from experience, after all. So he stood by helplessly and watched.

Sherlock kicked out wildly, his face screwed up in distress. Quick, terrified breaths tore themselves from his lips, no doubt making his throat raw. Suddenly, much to John's horror, he arched his back and let out another low keening wail. John could see slivery tear tracks seeping out from under his closed eyelids, pooling at his temples before running into his hairline.

Regardless of whether or not it was real, there was no denying that the man before him was reliving a horror John could only begin to imagine, and suffering an immense amount of pain in the process.

"No," a tortured moan escaped him, and Sherlock threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Please. Just let me _die_." His words were full of fear and hostility, and they cut through John like razor wire.

Any qualms about interfering evaporated on the spot. John couldn't just stand by and watch as Sherlock was held hostage by his acute mind.

Not wanting to restrain him, he leant over his prone form, talking all the while in what he hoped was a calming voice. When that didn't work, he put one sure hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, cradling the base of his skull, and the other against his forehead maintaining a steady, warm pressure. It wasn't necessarily holding him down per se, but it was meant to provide a sense of security.

"Wake up, it's not real. You're safe. I've got you," John said all the while. He kept repeating the mantra as Sherlock began to struggle back to consciousness.

Finally, his eyes snapped open, and an inhuman fury contorted his features. Before John had a chance to react, Sherlock leapt on him, fisting his hands in his collar and flipping them around until he had John pinned underneath. His head connected with the arm of the couch with a definitivethunk, and he raised his hands, palms open in a non-threatening manner. Sherlock shook and panted as adrenaline slammed into his veins, and he bared his teeth, his body keyed up and taught like a bowstring. A few errant tears slipped off his nose and landed on John's face.

"Easy," John said and ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone to clear away the moisture gathered there. He subconsciously smoothed the dark hair at his temple with the back of his knuckles. "Do you know where you are?"

Lucid recognition slowly eased its way into his eyes, and he looked around wildly, scared and confused. "John?"

"You're in the flat. You were having a nightmare."

Relief crashed into him, and a strangled half-sob made its way out of his throat. His fever-bright eyes roved over John's face as if he were a parched man trying to drink him in.

"Of course," he finally breathed, the tension leaving his frame. He uncurled his fingers from John's pyjama shirt, and pressed them to the base of his throat to feel the familiar pulse point, strong and steady. Suddenly realising what he was doing, he stiffened and sprung up, scooting back to the farthest end of the sofa. He drew his knees up to his chin and started wide-eyed at John. His face was gaunt and pale, and he bit down hard on his lip.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, easing himself up to sit closer to him.

"Don't!" Sherlock snarled and bolted to his feet. His face flushed with sudden anger. "I can't, not with you — _don't look at me like that!_" he shouted and turned violently away from John. His shoulders continued to shake, and he was muttering something under his breath. John just sat there in shocked silence, confused at the volatile turn. Finally his manic murmurs ceased, replaced with deep breaths that he dragged in through his nose. "Did I hurt you?"

"What? Sherlock —"

"Did I _hurt _you?" he asked again, a hysterical edge beginning to form in his voice.

"No. I'm fine." Sherlock nodded, still unable to face John, and started off in the direction of his bedroom. Before he could get too far, John grabbed him by the elbow. "Wait."

Sherlock froze, and tried to pull away. "John please I don't —"

John shook his head and brought his finger up to his lips for silence. Sherlock looked at him curiously. It was a ridiculously delusional thought, but for some reason John figured if they didn't speak it was like nothing happened. Sherlock seemed to catch on to the fact, and observed him intently. After a moment Sherlock nodded, and John gently took him by the wrist, leading them into the bathroom. Silently, he turned on the tap and filled a small glass of water and opened the med cabinet. He pulled out a cardboard box and popped two sleeping pills out of the blister pack, and held them out to Sherlock. For a moment it looked as if he was about to say something, but John shook his head again in warning. It was his way of giving Sherlock an out if he wanted. _We don't ever have to talk about it. I don't pity you, I just want to help_.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, gratitude smoothing the tension out of his face, and took the water and the pills with out a word. John nodded once, and made his way back upstairs for the rest of the night.

Just like that, they had developed a sort of a pact. From then on whenever Sherlock would cry out in the night, John was there with water or tea, and if they were really bad, sometimes a few pills, and they would sit together in the lounge in complete silence until Sherlock felt ready to return to sleep. John never knew if it helped, but he took note when the nightmares began to wane in frequency.

This particular night was a bad one. No sooner had John walked through the door did he hear a distressed moan from Sherlock's bedroom. Thinking it was the normal fare, John turns into the kitchen and goes to turn on the hob. What he hears next makes him forget all about tea.

"JOHN!" Something crashes to the floor.

Sherlock never shouts his name in his sleep, never.

John's first instinct is that Sherlock's hurt, and without a second thought he dashes out of the kitchen and shoulders open the door to his room. From the light in the hallway, John can see Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. He's breathing heavily. It was a nightmare, then, and at first he's relieved. He's about to go back out and continue with their nightly ritual, but he stops in his tracks when Sherlock looks up at him. The mixture of fear and pain on his face is so startling, his breath stutters in his throat. He walks farther into the room instead, and something crunches under his shoes.

"Careful," Sherlock warns.

"What happened?"

"Water glass," he says, dropping his head to his hands again. His fingers twine in his hair, and he bounces his leg up and down in a nervous gesture. John leaves to fetch a dustpan.

After he cleans everything up he comes over and sits next to Sherlock on the bed. He doesn't say anything, not like last time. He feels like he's done enough damage to his friend already by making him tear down the walls he built for himself. But he can't make himself leave either.

"They seem to be worse the longer you go with out sleep. How long's it been? Three days?" John observes after a while.

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock says, but it's hollow and lacking in its usual asperity.

"Right, then," he says and goes to leave.

A pale hand rests on his forearm tugging him lightly in a placating manner, and John pauses and settles back down. "I never thank you. I should thank you," Sherlock says quietly. His words lilt upwards like they do when he realises something profound.

"Don't mention it. It's what we do."

"What we do?"

"Protect each other."

"I don't need protecting, John," he scoffs. The exhaustion in his voice makes it sound more like a worn sigh.

"I think you do. More from yourself than anything." At this he receives a startled look from Sherlock. He blinks at him owlishly, and John wonders yet again at what kind of childhood Sherlock had where he wasn't told that he was cared about. _That he was loved_. The thought stirs up both the protective and the possessive sides of him, and he fights a powerful urge to take his hands in his. Instead, he gives Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze. "Look, all I'm saying is I'm here is all."

They lapse into silence again, and John stares at the floor still not wanting to leave. Finally, Sherlock speaks, his voice wrought and raw.

"You were shot. In my dream. I couldn't stop it from happening. I couldn't protect you. After everything — after Berlin, and Helsinki, and Moscow — I couldn't stop that one bullet from reaching your heart."

John's heart thuds in his chest. He can sympathise all too well. "Well that was rather selfish of me," he says trying for a bit of levity.

"It was. Very selfish, that dying lark," he says. In the dim light John can see a wry, knowing smile tugging the corners of his mouth, never quite reaching his eyes.

"Well I will try my hardest not to get shot, then."

"Good."

John chuckles a little sadly. "Tea?"

"No. Not tonight," Sherlock says. He lays back and stares at the ceiling, his feet flat on the bed and his knees tented upward. Without really thinking about it, John begins massaging Sherlock's bare ankle in an unconscious gesture of comfort. "We have a case. Be ready in the morning."

"Lestrade?"

"Mm." Sherlock's eyes slide shut. "It's about time he gave me a good one. Double homicide. Locked room from the sound of it."

"You haven't seen it yet?"

"No. I asked him to preserve the scene for me until tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Anderson's rubbish. And you were gone. For those two reasons it would have been pointless to go." Regardless of the fact that John's presence at a crime scene hardly ever made much of a difference, he says this as if it were blatant fact and not something that could in any way verge on being interpreted as sentimental. No, sir.

"All right, then," John says an amused smile in his voice. Sherlock cracks open an eye to peer at him, seemingly surprised that John was settled with this explanation.

Apparently satisfied with what ever was written on John's face, Sherlock closes his eyes again and hums lightly. "Thank you. That thing you are doing with my foot. It's good."

John blinks a few times, a flush creeping up his neck. He wasn't even aware he was doing it. He clears his throat, "You're welcome. I'll just stay, then, 'til you fall asleep if you want?"

Sherlock hums again in agreement, his face slackening already as he is once again pulled down into slumber.

John stays longer than necessary leaving his fingers loosely clasped around Sherlock's warm ankle, the pad of his thumb keeping time with deep rise and fall of his chest as he strokes the hollow of his Achilles.

It suddenly occurs to him that this is only the third time he's seen his friend like this: so vulnerable and trusting. It is the latter that causes John's heart to clench. Sherlock Holmes doesn't trust anybody, and probably never has. After all, when everything about a person is in plain sight, so is the devastation they are capable of. John has always prided himself on his knack for recognising nuance, but he was nothing compared to Sherlock who saw and interpreted anything and everything regardless of if he wanted to or not. It's not a wonder he keeps everyone at arms length.

The thought makes him sad. He knows what it's like to have issues with trusting people, knows how isolating it can be. But the fact that Sherlock has decided to trust him enough to let him in on these rare moments of lost composure causes John's breathing to pick up, and his pulse to flutter. Their relationship has always meant something to Sherlock, he knows, but this was the first time he realised it wasn't as one-sided as he had assumed. Point being: John was just as important to Sherlock as Sherlock was to John.

The epiphany settles in his chest like a winged creature threatening to burst out of his ribs singing of joy and sorrow in equal measure. Joy, because his long simmering feelings were not as unrequited as he thought, and sorrow in the sense he wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock even wanted these feelings not matter how strong. He had always been the first to chide a victim or suspect for letting their emotions overwhelm their rationality, so what made the great detective himself any different? John was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to turn that cold, clinical, critic on himself if he hadn't done already. The last thing he wanted was to be the source of Sherlock's self-deprecation.

It was quite a situation he found himself in, to be honest.

He stares down at Sherlock's peaceful form in the dim glow of the hall light. He looked so very young all of a sudden, his brow smooth and not furrowed in concentration for once, his pale-pink lips parting slightly.

Finally, John gets up from the bed and pulls the duvet over his sleeping form. Before he leaves, he cards the hair back from his brow. It really was getting quite long, and the errant curls framing his eyes made him look younger still. John's fingers linger a little longer than necessary, his hand making its way down to brush the crest of his smooth cheek.

"You've ruined me," John whispers at last. He leans in closer, "We've ruined each other. How can you ever forgive me once you realise?" Then, before he could think too hard on it, he lightly presses his lips feather-light against Sherlock's before heading up to his own room, cold and alone.


	7. The Edge

**AN: I really appreciate all of the comments and follows. It's really spurned me on, and I am pushing for the finish. Hope you all like it.**

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John was dragged out of bed by Sherlock at half six the next morning, the madman bounding down the stairs as John hastily yanks on his jumper, the only evidence of last night in the dark circles under his eyes.

"Come on, John! It's practically Christmas morning! Can't you feel it?"

"Ye — hang on can I at least grab a sodden cup of coffee before we go?" he grumbles.

"No time! I tried to make you some, but we're out of filters."

"Wait. You tried to make me coffee?" John asks pausing in the middle of tying his shoes. Sherlock paces impatiently in front of him.

"Hm? What are you on about?" He absently flicks the kitchen light on and off three times. It makes John smile.

"You. Being nice. It's just a shock that's all. You didn't sprain something did you?" John teases.

"I just might have," Sherlock says archly, stopping to look at him, mischief crackling merrily in his eyes. "Hurry up, John. You're being tedious."

John shakes his head, an exasperated smile playing on his lips as he is dragged yet again, out of the flat and essentially stuffed into a waiting taxi.

Sherlock is positively buzzing with excitement, and seeing him this way has John grinning from ear to ear.

"So what have we got?"

Happily Sherlock regales John with the details of the case. Apparently, the two victims, (both Caucasian, one male, one female, room locked from the outside, chain on the inside) were shot point blank with no evidence of forced entry. Some items of jewelry were missing, but Sherlock highly doubted it was a robbery gone wrong. The whole thing reeked of being staged.

"Why do they always do that? Make it look like some deranged robber who was walked in on. Obviously a burglar wouldn't rob someone in broad daylight for a few pieces of chintzy jewelry. If he really wanted something, he would have prepared. Stalked her, found out her habits, her schedule. Waited until dark, and especially waited until she was either alone or out."

"I'm not going to even comment on the disturbing level of thought you have committed to this," John says wryly.

"It's only logical. There are several hackneyed television shows with this exact recipe for theft. Idiots aren't capable of true ingenuity; they rely on imitation. I've seen it numerous times. Almost always the plan is botched due to unforeseen variables, and the thief inevitably panics. When a petty thief panics, he doesn't kill, he flees. Typical behaviour."

"So personal then?"

"Personal? Why would you say personal?" Sherlock turns his sharp gaze on him.

"Well he waited until they were together in a locked room in broad daylight. If he was planning it, he would have done all the things you said. Prepared and such."

"It could have been a crime of passion," Sherlock counters.

"Yeah but, it's not. I know you. You wouldn't have taken the case if it were. Too _obvious_."

Sherlock's lips twitch into the smile only reserved for when John was being especially clever, and he turned to look out the window for the rest of the ride, content in his musings.

However, John's good mood evaporated when they entered the small bedroom and Greg hands them the photos of the victims.

Two bodies, the male sprawled on top of the other in a defensive manner, clearly trying to ward off the attack upon the woman underneath him. But it was all for naught.

"It looks like she was dead before he even realised," John says, trying to ignore the bolt of pain racing up his leg.

"Yes clearly," Sherlock nods inspecting the gun shot wound on the first victim's neck. "Nicked the carotid. Bled out in a manner of moments." He sweeps around the room gracefully, checking the contents of the jewelry box and running his gloved hand over the wall. "Lestrade, do we know anything about them?"

The DI flips through his little black notebook. "Barbara Stanson, 45, this is her house. Recently moved from Chiswick. The young man is her son, Jeremy Stanson 28."

"Step-son," Sherlock corrects.

The DI and John both look at him questioningly. Sherlock grabs the small photo he had been inspecting earlier from the nightstand.

"The son has a cleft-chin," he says, handing the frame to John.

John looks at it, and recognition alights on his face. "Oh yes I see. But how do you know he's her step son and not Mr. Stanson's?"

"Woah, hold up a tick," Lestrade cuts in, baffled at the rapid wordless exchange between the doctor and detective. "Not all of us can read this nutter's mind like you Watson. Care to explain, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks back over to the victims. After it becomes apparent that he can't be arsed to answer, John rolls his eyes in equal annoyance, and turns obligingly towards the DI.

"Well, it's genetics. Jeremy has a cleft-chin, but Mr. and Mrs. Stanson don't, so his real mother or father must be the one who gave it to him."

"The mother," Sherlock says in an irritated huff from across the room. "He was obviously _her_ step-son."

"Again, care to share with the rest of us?" Lestrade says an antagonised edge to his voice. He's clearly at the end of his rope, as if the smell of cigarettes on his clothes isn't a good enough indication, his wrinkled and askew collar shows he probably hadn't been home to change that night. He must be backed up at work again, and John sympathises, he truly does. Sherlock hardly makes it easy for anyone at the best of times. John clears his throat and shoots Sherlock a meaningful glare before he could unleash the snapping beast of his condescension. His mouth closes in a rare gesture of acknowledgement.

Instead, he sniffs disdainfully, and launches into his deductions, containing himself to the cut and dry.

"Her ring is fairly new, this particular cut of diamond being the trade mark of the Shepheard Jewlery Company which was established only five years ago. The sapphires on the sides, and the setting of the stones is a unique design from one of their first lines of engagement rings which means she's only been married for three to four years. Also, the cheque book in the nightstand has several voided cheques dating back at least three years ago, signed as Barbara Williams instead of Stanson implying that she hadn't quite got the hang of her new name even though it is printed at the top along with her address, ergo: Jeremy is her step-son. Simple."

John struggles to close his mouth left hanging open in astonishment. No matter how many times he witnessed it, Sherlock's earth-shattering deductions were always a thing to behold. "Amazing," he breathes. And like always he means it. But what's even more amazing is how Sherlock always seems taken by surprise at John's praise. More than anything, John glows with pride at the pinkening of Sherlock's cheeks, knowing that he was probably the only one that could draw the bashfulness out of the hard-edged detective.

"What do we know of Mr. Stanson?" Sherlock asks, his eyes lingering on John before he turns to Lestrade.

"Dead. As of six months ago. Heart attack."

"Life insurance policy?" he shoots, his brows snapping together.

"Paid out to Mrs. Stanson."

"Only to her? Anything for his children?"

"Wait. Children? You mean he had more than that one there?" Lestrade asks, trying and failing to keep up with Sherlock's train of thought, unlike John who had made a considerable leap in his own theories.

"Yes, a brother to be exact. He's your killer. But why kill them both if they were only after her?"

"How did you —?"

"God open your eyes for a change, Inspector!" Sherlock lashes, his patience burnt up like tinder.

Meanwhile, John had been observing the photos a little closer, something niggling at the back of his head. "Sherlock?"

"Listen, I'm doing you a favour letting you even be here when the scene should have been cleared _yesterday,_ mind," Lestrade growls taking a step into Sherlock's space.

"It is I who is doing you the favour, Lestrade. Don't forget it," he challenges.

"Sherlock!" John says again. He continues to be ignored.

"Just because you're back from the dead like some bloody vampire doesn't mean you're entitled to —"

"SHERLOCK!" John yells, effectively putting an end to the bickering. In a bemused voice he says, "The brothers. They weren't in on it together. At least not at the end."

"What?" Sherlock says, hurrying over to John's side, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"He, Jeremy, tried to protect her."

There is a beat of silence before the realisation crashes over Sherlock. He snatches the photos from John and flips through them.

"Of course! They were lovers! John you are unparalleled. Now we —" Sherlock pauses, his eyes flashing around the room, the tell-tale quirk of an eyebrow letting John know an idea was forming inside his head. He switches tack. "Lestrade. Find out who the brother is, he probably works down at CanaryWharf. Bring him in for questioning. Come on John." He turns sharply on his heel and swoops out of the room.

Lestrade nods sharply and keys up his radio. John takes one last look around the room before following Sherlock. It takes him a little while to manage the stairs with his leg, and by the time he gets to the street a cab is pulling up to the kerb. He slides in next to Sherlock.

"What's the plan?" he asks immediately. "I imagine you diverted Lestrade for a reason?"

Sherlock doesn't answer right away. Instead, he addresses the cabbie: "Take us two blocks up and drop us off near Oxford Circus." He leans back and steeples his fingers, tapping them idly against his lips, deep in thought.

"Sherlock?" John nudges.

"The brother is still in the house."

"What?"

"In the room actually. The house was built with a hidden annex behind one of the walls in the bedroom. The back wall should have had a window like the other houses on the block, but the window was on the east wall instead. The paint was off colour too. Sloppy renovation. He probably didn't account for the fact that Mrs. Stanson's house used to be a crack house with an outward locking door and bars over the window. It was lucky for him he discovered the crawlspace through the closet."

"You figured that out all because the paint was funny?"

"Well…there was also the window. And I have seen my fair share of crack houses in my time," he says nonchalantly.

The cab rolls to a stop, and they both get out amidst the melee of people. Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets and set off in the direction they just came from.

"What I want to know is what the motive was," John follows suit, keeping pace regardless of his faint limp.

"There might have been a falling out between father and sons that caused him to write them out of the will. After his death they must have planned to swindle Mrs. Stanson somehow, but it didn't quite go accordingly in Jeremy's case. Faced with betrayal from everyone in his family, the killer shot them both in cold blood. So you were wrong, it was a crime of passion in the end."

"Yeah…" he trails off. "So we're going back?"

"Yes. No doubt he was listening when I misdirected Lestrade. If I timed it right, by the time we get there he will have gathered enough courage to make his escape. The door will have been left unlocked so Anderson and his crew can do their final sweep before closing."

"Right," John says, adjusting the gun at the small of his back. Anticipation was singing through his veins, and he could feel the tension of battle coiling through his frame.

Sherlock's mobile chimes and he pulls it out of his pocket, eyes lighting up as they flit over the text.

"Lestrade has intel on the brother. His name is Maddox Powell, last name his mother's no doubt. She probably died when he was young, so he feels the need to immortalise her. He's a computer programmer in the business district." He doesn't say anymore, instead his thumbs fly over the keys, his head down as he does research on the elusive Mr. Powell.

Even though his eyes are glued to his Blackberry, he still manages to dodge the various people milling about the pavement. John is amused at Sherlock's many talents, shadow vision apparently one of his witch-y capacities up there with mysterious cheekbones and cab summoning. John huffs a laugh, as Sherlock fluidly side-steps a woman with her hands occupied with a coffee carrier without looking up once.

It's indulgent, watching him when he's not aware, and John looks on unabashedly. It's all he'll ever allow himself.

Sherlock abruptly pauses, and John nearly runs head on into him. "Oh."

"Sherlock?"

"Next train to Cardiff leaves Battersea in half an hour! I've miscalculated, come on John, we cannot let him get away!" he says and takes off running.

"He's leaving?" John pants, keeping up with Sherlock.

"Yes! Got a cousin, lives in Wales. He'll have left the house not too long ago hopefully we can head him off. Take the alley John, and I'll go 'round the block!" he shouts, breaking away from him. John careens to the right, his feet pounding the pavement. The alley smells of piss and rubbish, and he focusses on making it to the end as fast as he can. He turns the corner and crashes into something solid, taking him clean off his feet, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

He struggles to sit up, gasping and coughing, his eyes bleary. He notices that the apparent wall he ran into was actually a person. The man was quicker to recover, and before John even has a chance to react, he is dragged to his feet by his lapels and slammed into the wall, a sickening crack resounding in his skull.

"Who are you?" the man roars. "You with the police?" He smells ripe, like unwashed clothes and stress, and John realises this is the man they are looking for.

Instead of answering, John tries to manoeuvre the gun out from behind his back. Powell is faster, keyed up on adrenaline, and slams John into the brick wall over and over until he is senseless. He slumps to the ground on his side, vaguely aware that his gun is being yanked from its holster. John looks up, and Powell seems to waver indecisively on the setbacks of shooting someone in broad daylight. At last, he looks down at him with malice, and tucks the gun in his waistband. With a parting kick to John's side, he takes off down the alley.

John wobbles to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support.

"John!" Sherlock skids to a halt beside him, his face drained of colour. He grabs him by the shoulders hard, assessing the damage.

"Go," John gestures in the direction Powell took off in, straining for breath. His ribs are possibly cracked, and his head is throbbing. "He's probably headed for the Oxford Tube Station, Sherlock, go! I'm right behind you!" He shoves Sherlock, and they take off, John a few paces behind as they tear through the streets.

There are people everywhere, and a wave of chaotic nausea rolls through him as they pound down the steps to the underground. Sherlock stops, and spins around in the midst of the heavily crowded station, and John grabs his sleeve.

"He took my gun."

Sherlock's eyes lock on his, grave understanding etched in his face. They are hunting a killer at the end of his rope, who has a gun, in the middle of dozens of potential targets.

Suddenly there is a commotion on the platform, and Sherlock sprints off in said direction with John at his heels, the pair of them bypassing the turnstiles with ease. A space has cleared, people gasping and backing away as Powell shouts at them to get back, waving the gun haphazardly. Two security guards are trying to talk some sense in him, but he doesn't hear, out of his head with homicidal rage.

"POWELL!" Sherlock yells his voice ricocheting around the concave walls of the station, causing the man to flinch violently. Spooked, he whirls around and leaps onto the tracks, flying down the tunnel. Sherlock blazes after him.

"Call the police! Get people out of here," John says stopping long enough to address one of the guards before he heads after Sherlock. His heart does a sickening jolt in his chest as the sound of a gun rings out and a few people scream. "SHERLOCK!"

_Oh please, God, no!_

He wills himself to go faster down the dark tunnel, his pounding footsteps shattering like shrapnel against the hard ground. He sees a shadowy figure crouched on the ground struggling with something, one hand outstretched towards his assailant. It's Sherlock.

"You don't want to do this, Powell," Sherlock's voice echoes in the darkness. "You never know who you might hit if the bullet rebounds."

"You! Stop right there!" Powell shrieks, and John can see his outline, shaking gun trained on Sherlock. John screeches to a halt, his hands out in a placating manner.

"Look," John says, his tone akin to calming a wild animal. "We know you didn't mean to kill your brother." A sharp intake of breath, and John takes a step forward. "Just give us the gun."

"He got in the way," Powell's says, his voice taught.

"Yes," John says still moving forward. He passes Sherlock trying to assess his condition. For some reason he's still in that half-kneeling position but it's too dim to see. "It was an accident. Anybody can see."

"It was all that _bitch's_ fault!" he spits. John was within arms reach at this point.

"Yes," John agrees. He's almost there if he could just —

The piercing sound of a siren has Powell jumping, and John makes his move, grabbing his wrist. The gun goes off again, and they grapple falling to the ground.

"JOHN!"

John has the advantage at first due to the element of surprise, but the other man is strong, and in a matter of moments has John pinned causing the back of his head to smack the metal of the tracks beneath him. Tiny bursts of light explode behind his lids. With all of his strength, John manages to find leverage against Powell, and flips him up and off. He hears the skittering of his gun as it is knocked from his hand. John rolls over and pushes himself to his knees in time to see Powell standing over Sherlock, the gun reclaimed and the barrel of it pressed hatefully to the back of his head. His breath catches when he hears the unmistakable click of the hammer being pulled back.

"No! Stop!" he nearly pleads. Begging is all he has left, utterly spent and defeated.

Suddenly, the distant sound of a train whistle cascades up the tunnel, and a sick grin twists Powell's face. He resets the hammer, a spark in his eyes.

"I have to catch a train," he says and nods in John's direction. "And apparently, so do you." With that, he spins on his heel and takes off back in the direction of the platform while train behind them lets out another menacing bellow.

John is at Sherlock's side in an instant, and through the gloom he sees what the problem is: Sherlock's foot is trapped in between two intersecting bits of train track. His blood turns to ice as he hauls him to his feet.

"How horribly cliché," Sherlock remarks dryly.

"Shut up," John says and crouches down to assess the damage. "Twist it while I try to pull, all right?" he shouts over the growing din. Sherlock centres himself, his hands on John's shoulders for support, and they try to coordinate. It's clumsy, and John doesn't miss the hiss of pain as Sherlock's ankle is wrenched this way and that. The train is closer now, nearly around the bend, and his hands are shaking with each futile effort.

"John…"

"Hang on I'm going to try and get your shoe off," he says biting his lip. He can't get his hand through, there's not enough room, and all he manages is scraping his knuckles to a pulp.

"John," Sherlock grips his shoulders even tighter and winces in time with another blow of the horn. He tries to pull him up to his feet. "John you need to —"

"No! Just shut your bloody mouth! I'm not leaving!"

"John, listen to me!"

He bolts to his feet, and his eyes collide with Sherlock's. Whatever he was going to say next dies on his lips as he takes in John's thunderous expression.

"I won't go through this again, Sherlock! I won't! You came back to me and I'm not going to let you go for a second, now _help me!_"

Sherlock's jaw clenches, the determined look in his eye replacing that cold resignation that was there a moment ago. He looks down and rapidly evaluates the situation. The bright lights of the train are in view now as it barrels towards them. He nods sharply, and shouts, "You're going to have to break my ankle. It's the only way. When it's hyper extended enough slip off my shoe."

John doesn't argue and drops back to his knees. On Sherlock's count of three, they move together as one, and John frees his foot with a stuttering _pop,_ ignoring his sharp yelp of pain. He nearly sobs in relief, the sound lost in the whistling screech of metal on metal as the breaks are engaged. He clutches Sherlock around the waist, frantically dragging him down the narrow tunnel. The train is nearly on top of them, and John knows there is no way they will be able to out run it.

"John! Look!" Sherlock shouts, pointing to the dull orange glow of an emergency lamp. The lamp doesn't lie flush to the wall, so to prevent it from being ripped away by the passing train, is nestled in a narrow gap about shoulders width apart. Big enough for one person.

_"Come on!"_ John yells through clenched teeth. There is a furious pounding in his head, and spots of white are tearing at the edges of his vision due to exertion. He can feel the whooshing air at his back.

With one last almighty push they reach the gap and fall in, Sherlock's back pressed against the wall, his arms a vice around John's waist pulling him in as tight as he can as the train screams past mere inches away, breaks still struggling for purchase. John holds his breath as it slowly rolls to a stop, effectively trapping them against each other in the confines of the small space. The sudden silence is deafening.

"All right, John?" Sherlock asks after a moment, his voice hushed, concern furrowing his brow. In the eerie orange light above them his eyes look opalescent.

A quaking laugh scrapes up John's throat, and he tries to respond, but finds that words are a bit too much at the moment. He's shaking all over, and he's trying to regulate his breathing. He almost lost everything that ever mattered to him. Again. Sherlock's hand comes up and wipes moisture away from under his eyes. He hadn't realised he had been crying.

"You don't get to do that again," he says finally. He feels like his tongue is thick and cottony, and forming words takes energy he doesn't have. "You don't get to give up like that."

His legs give out on him, the adrenaline in his blood finally burnt away, and Sherlock's arm around his waist grips tighter holding him up completely.

"John? John! Look at me," he says a thread of fear in his voice. John looks up at him, his neck feeling like rubber, and tries to focus. The hand Sherlock used to wipe away his tears comes up again and shields his eyes from the light before taking it away. "Your pupillary response is uneven. You have a concussion." Then, with more dexterity than John thought was possible, Sherlock manages to snake his arm around, retrieving John's mobile from his jacket pocket. He fires off a text, possibly two within seconds, and slips it back where he found it.

"Being smacked on the head one too many times does that," he says a little giddily. It's getting hard to keep his eyes open. "M'adoctor. Good one, remember?" he slurs, gravity pulling his lids down.

"Don't fall asleep, John. Keep your eyes on me."

"You already said that," John says, his eyes snapping open wide. Dread swells in his chest. "You said that and then – then you left."

"I know," he says, regret etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

"You can't go again," John says, not caring that his voice sounded small and weak in his own ears. His head was on fire, and he did nothing to stop the fresh torrent of tears from streaking down his face. They seemed to be automatic, as if he was simply overflowing, which was good because he didn't think he could handle the wracking pain that sobbing would bring to his poor abused skull. "I might die this time."

"I'm not going anywhere ever again, I promise. I'm going to take care of you. Just please, keep your eyes open." Sherlock grips the back of John's neck forcing him to focus.

"I watch you every night, Sherlock. I watch you jump over and over, and _I never look away._ I can't stop you. _I can't save you!_" This time a sob does make its way past his lips, and it causes his vision to white out for a second. Suddenly, he is back at St. Bart's looking up at a fallen angel. He tries to lift his arm, as if he could stay him with his hand alone, but it is trapped between him and something solid. "It's never enough. Loving you. It wasn't. It won't be." The strangled words trip over his tongue and shatter apart like glass.

Then, before his chest caves in completely, a soft hand cups the back of his head and pulls him down into dusk and twilight. The darkness is such a relief that he shudders, inhaling deeply. The musky smell of sweat mingling with trace amounts of mint and argon oil brings John back to the present, and he realises he is chasing the dark in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Dimly, part of his muddled brain tells him something is wrong with this picture, but before he can grasp it, it slips through his fingers. He tries to pay attention when Sherlock begins speaking again, but unconsciousness is dragging him under. The last thing he's aware of is the gentle lull of Sherlock's nadir voice sinking into him.


	8. Mend

**AN: I have been writing my little heart out, trying to finish this beauty up so I can work on my other story. Never did I think the little one-shot that I started with would turn into this. You people who have read and commented have been wonderful, and have taken my creativity to new heights! Thank you for reading!**

**I wanted to throw a little Mycroft in there, and try to shed light on his compulsion to take care of Sherlock, and also on why the brothers don't get on. And because I am a sucker for Mycroft's older brotherly-ness and general familial dysfunction.**

**Additional tags ('cause I'm a dork): Lestrade's wife is a harlot, because honestly he's a great guy, shock blankets, panic attacks, (I think I have a fetish with those), gratuitous use of italics, commas too, , , and John's a good doctor he can fix anything.**

**Again, thank you all who have stuck with me. Comments are always appreciated!**

* * *

_This is what shock must feel like,_ Sherlock thinks as the paramedics ease John out of his arms. His face is so pale, making the dark red of blood on the side of his face stand out unnaturally in the sickly light. He looks down at the palm of his own hand, the hand that threaded itself through his hair moments ago, tacky with more blood. John's blood.

They lay him down, and he is so, so still. Every nightmare he's ever had crashes into fruition at that moment…

Sherlock rushes forward forgetting his ankle, and falls to his knees with a strangled cry. He scrambles forward, willing his cold fingers to wrap around John's hand. He wants to shake him, slap him, _anything_ just to see him open his eyes. But he is frozen in place, his jaw working against all the things he doesn't know how to say.

"There we are, almost got him," the paramedic shining the pen light into John's eyes says, more for Sherlock's benefit than anything. After a bit more urging, John manages to come to again, his blessed blue eyes swimming in and out of focus, and Sherlock takes a much needed breath…

Time seems to skip at this point, a distant part of his brain analyses.

The next thing he's aware of is sitting in a horrid waiting room that smells of disinfectant and sharp clinicism, his eyes tracking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. His ankle is done up in a brace, not a cast. It takes him a moment to remember that he wouldn't let the doctor's in A&E touch him. It took all of Lestrade's urging for him to at least concede to the damnable thing. Lestrade is sitting across the room now, a foot crossed over his knee reading some crap tabloid. Sherlock is both irritated yet grateful for his presence even though work has been hell, and his son isn't talking to him. (Blames him for the divorce and not that harlot he calls mother.)

He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes out of his mouth nonetheless. "He'll come 'round, you know."

"Sorry?" Lestrade starts, the tabloid falling in his lap. It's been nearly an hour since Sherlock's said a word.

"Your son."

"Erm, I'm not sure this is —"

"Your ex-wife has a habit of letting those whom care about her the most down the hardest. Whether it's due to her insecurities, or her impulsiveness as the youngest child out of four others, she inherently seeks to sabotage. It's only a matter of time before – Aaron is it? – gets dragged through the mud, and when he does, he will see."

Lestrade clears his throat, a small frown present in the lines of his face. Sherlock's expecting a reprimand, after all John would, remarking on keeping the details of people's personal lives to himself, but what he gets instead is: "You think so?"

"I know it. I've been told I am an artisan at sabotage myself," Sherlock says flatly and looks away.

"Detective Inspector," a voice that never fails to set Sherlock's teeth on edge interrupts from behind him. He doesn't have to turn around to see that it's Mycroft. "You should go and get some rest. You're looking a little worse for the wear. My sedan is out front willing to take you back to your domicile." (Only he would use words like _domicile._ Arrogant toff.)

"Thanks for your offer," Lestrade declines, his eyes regretfully tearing away from Sherlock. "But I have to get back to the Yard. We have no idea where Powell is, and we can't let the trail get too cold."

"He won't head for Cardiff. Not anymore. He's mentally unstable, probably a history of bipolar disorder in his family. He's unhinged, Lestrade. Sleep deprived. The type most inclined to go on a shooting spree," Sherlock says meeting his eyes with a hard look. "He's manic. He thinks he's above it all, and that will be his biggest mistake. He'll think he can get away with hiding in London."

Lestrade nods. "All right that narrows it down. I will let you know when we have a lead." He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, and squeezes Sherlock on the shoulder before heading out. The gesture is one of comfort, he knows, but he can't help but feel uneasy. The only person that touches him is John. The only person he _allows_ (wants?) is John. That realisation alone is more groundbreaking.

Mycroft sits in the chair Lestrade was previously occupying across from Sherlock, and he rests his umbrella against his knee, twiddling it absently.

"My, my. Haven't we had a day?" he remarks after a while. Sherlock exhales loudly through his nose, staring off in the distance. He wills a cutting retort to the surface, but exhaustion and the odd hollow feeling in his chest cause the words to dissolve in his throat. He closes his eyes instead, not caring about Mycroft and his judgmental appraisal he no doubt is bestowing upon him with every unguarded nuance. "He's all right, Sherlock," Mycroft says when he doesn't answer, his voice soft and concerned but in that hateful obligatory way that eats at him.

"He has sustained repeated blows to the back of the head, and a cracked rib. He almost got himself shot by a madman, twice; he lost consciousness after outrunning a bloody train; and now they are doing a CT for hemorrhaging and fatal swelling. He is _not okay, Mycroft."_Sherlock tries to imbue as much acid into his tone as possible. His hands are shaking.

_You didn't see how he broke when you left._

John's broken now. In more ways than one…

He drops his head into his hands and pulls his hair, hard. He's trembling apart, the bright vulgar notes of panic blooming in his chest. In a moment he will be lost under the weight of everything inside him that he has tamped down for so long. Three years of denying what he had always known in his heart of hearts (yes he has a heart after all) that what he did to Moriarty's men was more than just necessity. Everything, all of him (irrevocably) is fueled by John Watson.

_It's never enough. Loving you. It wasn't. It won't be._

His heart stutters, his throat slams closed.

He looks down at his hand — the hand that pulled him into John, John into him, enveloping them in that small space as if he could grow wings and reconcile them to each other soul to soul. He turns it over, palm down. There is still dried blood under his fingernails, dark lines of desert clay, despite the fact he scrubbed his hands furiously prior. _John's blood._

"Sherlock…" Mycroft says, genuine concern now edging its way into his voice. He leans forward almost imperceptibly, but Sherlock notices, and pure unbridled panic suddenly grips him in its throes. He surges to his feet just as Mycroft reaches for him and tries to make it to the door, anywhere to get away, away from Mycroft's prying eyes before he breaks apart like glass. He needs John, oh god he needs him like he needs air. Never has he been so lost.

Mycroft has always been deceptively fast, and he reaches Sherlock when he is only half way across the room. He locks his arms around his brother's shoulders in a bear hug and wrestles him down so he is sitting on his heels. His ankle twinges in protest, but Mycroft is mindful, and adroitly adjusts their position. He crouches over him on one knee to better keep Sherlock firmly pinned against his chest. (Distantly, he realises how bad it must be if Mycroft has to resort to the panic hold. He hasn't had to do that since Sherlock was fifteen after their mother died.)

Sherlock thrashes violently desperate to break free, the fear at being held down and trapped overwhelming his every sense. He's hyperventilating, every nerve ending positively on fire and spots of black darkening his vision.

"My…please _please._ Let me g-go." He can't breathe. He can't _fucking_ breathe. He's drowning, and his lungs are about to burst.

"You need to calm down, little brother," Mycroft says evenly against his ear, the words like waves crashing over him. A nurse comes in, and gasping tries to see if she can help, if she can call a doctor. Mycroft responds that it's only a panic attack, no need to worry, and if she would be so kind as to close the door, thank you. Sherlock feels sick with humiliation, but the quiet the closed door creates switches off the part of his brain that is constantly seeking out stimulation. The noise and the smells from the hospital are abruptly cut off, and he can contain himself to this small room as if it were the only place that existed in the universe. "That's better, right? I've got you." The deep timbre of Mycroft's voice sinks into him, and despite the utter loathing he feels it's working to rein him in bit by bit.

Finally, the vice in his lungs loosens, and he's able to pull in a shallow, choking breath. "That's it…remember how we do this?" Mycroft's arms relax a little, and he puts a warm palm over Sherlock's chest coaxing him to breathe in sync with his own deep breaths. After a moment he says, "How about I start this time? Hydrogen."

"H-Helium," Sherlock grates, his reeling mind latching on to the solidarity.

Mycroft waits a few minutes for Sherlock's heart rate to come down a little more before listing the next one. "Lithium."

"Beryllium…" He answers immediately. Breathing comes a little easier now, and he lets his head hang between his shoulders, giving into Mycroft's strong hold. (Sympathetic nervous system. The compression makes him feel safe. Autonomic response, he tells himself.)

"Boron." He loosens his hold, and gently eases Sherlock to his feet helping him balance on his mangled ankle. He keeps a firm grasp on shoulders and looks directly into his eyes, for once not analysisng, simply checking to see if he was okay.

"Carbon." Sherlock grimaces and his eyes slide away. He's relieved and mortified all at once.

"There you are," Mycroft whispers, a small, familiar smile shining in his eyes. The smile is of forgiveness and understanding, one Sherlock hasn't seen since he was eleven before he went to Uni and everything changed between them.

It startles him, this expression and the meaning behind it, and Sherlock is utterly beside himself. Overwhelmed, he tilts his head towards the ceiling blinking rapidly into the fluorescent lights, telling himself the stinging in his eyes is solely from the headache forming at the base of his skull. It's too much to process right now, and he is immensely grateful when the doctor comes in to speak with him.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft's hands drop to their sides as Sherlock spins around. "Doctor Watson's scans came back just fine. We are going to monitor him overnight of course, but there doesn't seem to be any concern of serious swelling. Nothing that a spot of rest won't cure."

"Right," Sherlock rasps, and clears his throat. "Right. Good. Can I see him?"

"Yes of course. He's asleep now, more due to nervous exhaustion than anything, but he was asking for you earlier. He's in room 12B."

Without further hesitation, Sherlock makes his way as quickly as his ankle will allow him down the hall and into John's room, not caring for once that Mycroft seemed to be hovering, his shoes tapping succinctly against the cold tile behind him.

He balks at the doorway when he sees John on the bed. He looks peaceful, but it's the large swath of gauze around his head that Sherlock can't tear his eyes from.

"Go to him Sherlock," Mycroft says. It's almost like a blessing, and yet again Sherlock is caught off guard.

"I thought you didn't approve of John," Sherlock says, but he can't muster up the spite to read in his voice.

Mycroft sighs deeply. "There was a time where I thought you would suffer under the burdens of sentiment and affection, convinced that there would be no one that could truly care for you the way you need. I taught you from a young age to be self sufficient. I taught you that being alone would be the only thing that would protect you. I was very, very wrong. And I am so sorry. For everything."

_Alone is all I have; alone is what protects me._

Sherlock faces him finally and scutinses though narrow eyes. Mycroft's face is unguarded, all of his usual hardness smoothed away by that small, sad smile. He looks years younger, like the brother from his childhood before everything soured between them due to bitterness and loss.

"Why are you doing this now, My? After all these years? Do you think you can make it right? You _abandoned_ me, and then punished me for my_weakness,_" he spits.

Mycroft lowers his gaze to the floor. "Yours is not the weakness. Mine is. I am incapable of such emotional depth as you, and I resented you for that and that alone. I am envious of you. Envious of your John." He looks over at the man on the bed, and it feels like a violation. Sherlock shifts so his sight is blocked, and Mycroft sighs and resumes. "I left because I knew I could never be what you needed. A grievous error born out of self-loathing and contempt, one that I have tried my hardest all these years to amend."

Sherlock's face contorts into fury, and he grits his teeth until his jaw aches. He makes an abortive gesture to walk away, but then whips around again and crowds the other man, breathing heavily as aggression thrums through him. He feels as if he could tear him apart with his bare hands. He settles with shoving him hard in the chest until he's nearly out of the room.

"I don't know if I can _ever_ forgive you." Rage causes his voice to tremble and crack like the thin layer of ice. "Because of you…I can never be what he needs. I am broken, beyond repair."

Mycroft closes his eyes briefly, giving a small nod as if this was all he expected. He reaches up and grasps Sherlock's shoulder holding him fast even when he tries to move away. He looks at him evenly. "Lucky for you, John is a doctor. Doctor's are known for fixing things." Before Sherlock can respond, Mycroft turns around and walks crisply out of the room, shutting the door with a muted click.

_But how do I fix_ him?

The question in his head reverberates through out him, and makes his bones feel hollow. Slowly, he sinks into the chair next to John's bed, a deep ache settling in his limbs.

-oOo-

John wakes with a jolt, the wail of breaks on metal and the sound of a train horn startling him out of unconsciousness. It takes only an instant for him to remember where he is. Hospital. Safe. They both are. The ringing in his ears dissolves to a dull tinny whine, and he blinks his eyes against the ache in his head. The light pouring in from the window is abhorrently bright even though it seemed to be late afternoon and veiled under thick cloud cover. John closes his eyes again so he can adjust.

He becomes aware of something heavy resting on his arm, and his fingers tingle with pins and needles. Curious, he opens his eyes again, and through the blur of his lashes he makes out Sherlock's lank form half sitting in a chair, and half on the side of the bed. His head is nestled in the crook of John's elbow, and he's breathing deeply. He's fast asleep, he realises, his hand loosely clasped around John's wrist.

He smiles, and rests his head back against the pillows allowing his eyes to close again. With his other hand he cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The curls are soft if not a bit sticky, and he finds that this feels like the most natural thing in the world to be doing. He hums contentedly in the back of his throat, and he can feel the warm and heavy pull of sleep begin to settle back into his tired bones.

Sherlock begins to stir under John's ministrations, and it's quite endearing when he feels Sherlock lean in to his touch, subconsciously seeking him out. For being as prickly and aloof as his was, the man was exceedingly tactile.

"John…?" Sherlock mumbles, still struggling to rise from the depths of sleep.

"Mm," John acknowledges. He doesn't want the moment to end. He can feel the quick brush of lashes on his skin as Sherlock blinks a few times. John cracks his eyes open and manages to see his slightly confused and sleep-lined face before a spike of pain forces them shut again. Much to John's reluctance, Sherlock sits up.

"Sensitivity to light," he remarks, already moving across the room. "Hang on." John can hear the sound of curtains being drawn, and the coolness against his eyelids as the room is cut off from the sun is a relief.

"Bless you Sherlock Holmes. You're a bleeding genius," John sighs.

"Your nurse is an imbecile. If she wasn't so concerned with trying to catch the eye of your doctor she would have realised you have a western facing room and would have closed the curtains accordingly. Twit."

John barks out a laugh, and then stifles it immediately as his head groaning in protest. He lets out a low hiss of pain, and Sherlock is suddenly there sitting on the side of the bed pressing a glass of water and two pills into his hands. He takes the painkillers gratefully, and holds out the glass to be taken back and set on the small table. John manages to open his eyes, and finds Sherlock looking at him intently, the dimness of the room making his eyes look pearly-white. John just looks at him for a moment and smiles.

Sherlock's face crumples in pain just then, and turning away, he puts a hand over his face. Before he can get up, John pulls that hand away and stays him. He seems to curl in on himself, his eyes tightly screwed shut. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"I'm no good, John. I'm broken. I can't be what you need." The words come out rehearsed, like facts from a brochure. The only thing that belies his pain is the stricken expression on his face, and his heavy breathing.

John's mind reels. What he needs? Wait. What?

Vaguely, the events of the day try their hardest to swim into focus. After the train incident, John was pretty hazy, only remembering bits and pieces before blacking out. They had made it to that insufferably small gap by some bloody miracle, and then they were talking, and John remembers getting mildly upset before he — oh God. What had he _said?_

_Loving you…_

"Sherlock," John clears his throat. "What ever it was that I may have told you I — It's fine. I'm not asking for anything, you don't have to do…anything. Just forget it. Sherlock, look at me." He obeys reluctantly, at an utter loss. His eyes rove over John's face, and his lips are parted as if he can't find the words to say what he wants, but there is no revulsion on his face. Only fear, uncertainty, and what appears to be guilt…?

This wouldn't do, no sir.

John's head gives another petulant clang. It was too much all of a sudden, his energy spent and his mind feeling like pulled taffy.

"Come here," he whispers, and pulls Sherlock by the hand. He comes willingly, and they lay side by side in the darkness, Sherlock tucking around him and trembling silently. "You're gonna need to get your ankle looked at properly," John murmurs.

"It doesn't hurt that much," Sherlock says, the shake in his voice causing a wave of tenderness to wash over him.

"Might've just sprained it then. Like I hoped."

"You are a good doctor. I wouldn't be surprised."

"Mm," John hums, sleep pulling him down sure and fast. "Told you. Don't worry. I'll fix you up. Promise. You'll be good as new."

"You always do," Sherlock says, his velvet voice rumbling like distant thunder. He dreams of rain, and the feeling of Sherlock pressing a single kiss into his hair. "Sleep well, John."

And he does.


	9. Reconcile

**AN: Well, friends. This is it. This is the finale chapter. It's quite long, and I hope I did it justice. I am very happy with it, and thank you for sticking with me until the end. There will be one more chapter that is just a little follow up epilogue...thing. Yeah. I thought about making this a series, but part of me is extremely pleased with how this turned out. After all it was only meant to be a one shot.**

**Also, I do realise I've probably taken a lot of liberties with the plot and case stuff, and my work is unbeta-ed. Ahem. Please forgive any and all mistakes.**

**Thanks again!**

* * *

_The gunshot. He wasn't sure if he heard it or felt it. Everything slows, and he zeros in on John's face cataloguing every detail in crystal clarity:_

_Confusion – mouth open in surprise, brow furrowed  
Pain – like a wave crashing over him; blinking rapidly  
Sorrow – 'I'm sorry' glittering in his impossible blue / hazel eyes as he falls…_

_One gun. John's gun even (like some ridiculous Greek tragedy)(hysteria at this point) trained directly at his heart. One bullet. (The one I couldn't stop.)_

_Like his dream. (Oh please be a dream.) But real. Stark and horrible and real._

**_This is what it's like when the earth swallows you whole._**

-oOo-

In the days after John returned from the hospital, he couldn't help but notice things were markedly different between them. Since the Train Fiasco, or as John likes to call it, 'I-now-know-why-Sherlock-hates-the-bloody-Tube,' Sherlock's moods had been volatile in the extreme. One minute he was torturing his violin within an inch of its life, the next he was back on the sofa practically catatonic. John figured it had to do with Maddox Powell still being on the loose. Sherlock Holmes hated losing, and it was eating at him that the man got away. What was worse was it seemed like the more they peeled back the layers, the more they realised there was way more to the two brothers than a simple case of life insurance. The pieces were failing to align, and Sherlock grew increasingly agitated, and sometimes borderline hostile. John tried to stay as far away from him as possible, a silent presence providing toast and cups of tea, which were all ignored of course. He didn't dare press him to eat.

Then like a light switch during the times when Sherlock didn't work himself into a right awful fugue, he seemingly couldn't get enough of John.

At first it started with the staring. John tried to ignore it, but it quickly became impossible when he could practically _feel_ those bloody points of light tracking him throughout the flat. John tried and failed to ignore him by reading the paper.

"All right," he said. "I'll bite, what is so fascinating?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he continued to stare at John from the leather armchair across from his. He slowly unfolded his long legs which were tucked against his chest and rose fluidly.

"I can't think," he murmured, a small frown furrowing his brow. John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock shook his head and brought a finger to his lips. There was something dancing in his eyes making them flash silver, and a little thrill ran through John just then. In response, he simply nodded and Sherlock plucked the paper from his fingers, folding it meticulously in fourths before setting it carefully on the floor next to John's chair. When he stood again, he tugged John with him gently by the wrist.

John gave him a puzzled smile, and let himself be guided to the couch. He sat on the end closest to the window in a patch of dewy sunlight, and watched Sherlock curiously with his hands folded in his lap.

Sherlock stepped back, and observed John. It seemed as if he was on the precipice of a decision, and his hands fluttered anxiously at his sides before clasping behind his back. He nodded to himself and spun on his heel in the direction of John's room. John watched him, completely confused yet intrigued as to what his absurd friend was up to. He heard the creak of the floor boards above him, and a moment later Sherlock came back into the lounge with the paperback John kept next to his bed for a bit of late night reading. He handed it to him expectantly.

"What's this?" John asked looking up at Sherlock's suddenly vulnerable expression.

"I thought you might want something to do." And before John could answer back, Sherlock positioned himself on the couch in his normal supine pose, only this time with his head in John's lap. He tented his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes.

John was stunned. "Er…?" he started, and Sherlock's eyes flashed open.

"Shut up. I need to think," is all he said, and resumed doing just that.

At first John wasn't sure what to make of it. They had both been excellent at completely ignoring the conversation that took place between them in the hospital, and John was perfectly fine with carrying on just as they'd always done. The last thing he wanted was to ruin things between them. But this…was new. The touching, the closeness for the simple reason that Sherlock warranted it. And John didn't mind one bit. So he shrugged and flipped to the last chapter he was reading, and if his hand found its way to card through Sherlock's ridiculous curls then that was fine too. It turned into a thing between them as natural as the day, and it helped temper them both.

It was a week and a half after this little routine was established when Sherlock jumped up, and exclaimed, "Gambling!"

John jerks awake having dropped off, the book sliding to the floor.

"What? Gambling?" he scrubs his face.

"Yes, John! Gambling!" He's up and about now, whirling around like a madman, a hyena-like rictus stretching his face. "Oh that's clever. It's gambling, but not really. On the surface it looks like he was only trying to scam Mrs. Stanson out of her legacy due to a gambling debt the brothers shared, but it's far more insidious than that. It's casino fraud!" he announces and flies down the hall to his room.

John, as usual, feels like he had been bowled over in the hurricane of Sherlock's brilliance, and gets to his feet, knowing what comes next. Sherlock blazes in with John's laptop, and shoves it into his hands.

"Look up all you can on Royall Marx…"

"He's the owner of _Royall Casinos_ I gather?" Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and before he can give his familiar caustic reply, John beats him to it. "_Obviously._ Right. Okay. Just give us a chance to make some tea."

Four cups of tea, an explosion of papers from various different files, and one shouting match later, ('Sherlock, you can't yell at Greg like that! He wants to find Powell as much as you do!' "Well tell him not to waste anymore of my time with-holding relevant information!') John was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, his laptop propped up on his knees, and practically wasted. His head was pounding, still not fully recovered, and the acerbity rolling off Sherlock was palpable, winding threads of tension through the air between them.

Sherlock was engaged in a fierce staring match with the skull looking very much like a certain Prince of Denmark, when he suddenly slams it down on the mantle with a loud bang, making John wince and press the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Christ! Sherlock, give it a rest for a minute, yeah? It's nearly midnight." John was still massaging his eye sockets when he felt the lanky detective step on top of the coffee table, and plop himself on the sofa behind him, long legs straddling his shoulders. His silk dressing gown flowing around him like water.

"What do we know, John?" Sherlock starts in a bemused voice. He absently pushes his long fingers into John's hair and takes over John's own ministrations, massaging his scalp to ease the vice that had taken residence in his skull. John opens his mouth to reply, only to have Sherlock cut him off. "No shut up. Your head hurts, and you talking uselessly will only make it worse."

"Mm," John grunts instead leaning in a bit further into Sherlock's hands. If he kept this up, John would let him insult him as much as he liked.

"Royall Casinos are going bankrupt, and there are rumours all alluding to the fact that Marx has been engaging in shadier prospects on keeping his business afloat. Lestrade suspects that the Russian mafia may be involved, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that Marx owes a lot of people. He ultimately wants to sell all three of his casinos and the land space they occupy, but first he has to get out from under his debtors. So what does he cook up? Insurance fraud."

"Insurance fraud?" John parrots more to keep Sherlock rolling than anything. His eyes are starting to prick with exhaustion.

"Yes. Casinos have a high turnover rate which makes them susceptible to loss. Especially if that loss happens to be people scamming the House. But one or two card counters aren't enough to make a claim. Marx needs something more grand scale like a hacked surveillance system and someone on the inside. Enter the brothers: Stanson and Powell. Powell works for _Epsilon Technologies_ as a programmer, and he recruited his brother Jeremy to work the boom shift as a blackjack dealer. For the next hour and a half, _Royall Casinos_ lost over 32.4 million pounds at the cool hand of Powell with the money Jeremy managed to talk Mrs. Stanson into giving him. But what doesn't make sense is why Powell went back to them after everything was said and done. Why did he kill them? If I knew his motivation, then I could hazard a guess as where he is hiding and flush him out."

John had been trying and failing to follow the intricate web of connections that Sherlock had weaved. His head was feeling mercifully better, but a solid lead weight settled into his bones. He only managed to hum lightly that he was still awake, even though it was just barely.

Sherlock releases a long-suffering sigh, and pulls John up by his arms. Before John can stagger fully to his feet, however, he feels himself being eased back on the couch and subsequently nestled in the arms of one lanky Consulting Detective. He knows he should probably get up and go to his own bed, but his limbs are warm and heavy, and he is extremely comfortable.

"Why did he kill them, John?" Sherlock says, his irritated huff of breath shifting the hairs on John's head. John takes a moment to revel in the feeling of being tucked under Sherlock's chin. By all means, they shouldn't have been able to fit so securely on the small sofa, but they had already managed it once he supposed, and Sherlock's arms around John kept them from rolling to the floor in a graceless heap.

"Dunno," John says, his eyes closing of their own volition. "Maybe it's like you said. Powell felt betrayed when Jeremy chose Mrs. Stanson. His only family."

"You mean cycling back to my original theory of sentiment I threw out almost immediately after realising how ridiculous it was? He had over thirty two million pounds in his back pocket, why would his brother's affair matter to him?"

"It was his _brother,_ Sherlock. People have killed for a lot less." John can't keep himself from yawning widely. God was he _tired._ "M'sorry m'so sleepy," he murmurs.

"It's unnecessary to apologise. You're still recovering from a concussion." But John doesn't really hear, he just settles him self closer still and breathes deeply.

-oOo-

Sherlock should have been thinking of the case. Maddox Powell was still at large and most likely running on manic fumes. He was a loose cannon, predisposed to vengeance. He needed to be tracked down and soon. If he was in league with Royall Marx, there was no telling what resources would be readily available to him. He should have been thinking about these things or texting Lestrade but instead he was thinking about the strange Army Doctor sleeping peacefully tucked into his side.

John Watson; Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; crack shot; nerves of steel; penchant for questionable jumpers, Earl Grey tea, and homemade risotto. And quite possibly the most important person in Sherlock Holmes's life.

How did this happen?

The question wasn't as baffling as he thought it was.

In the course of the past six months when he had first shown up on the doorstep of 221, Sherlock had been trying to salvage the ruins of his mind and body only to find that through all of it, John was constantly there, a steady rhythm, an anchor to the storm of his treacherous mind. His presence was silent and gracious, yet strong and willful when it needed to be. When _Sherlock_ needed him to be. Now that he thought about it, he had expected no less of John, and even frequently depended on this aspect of John's character in the past without regard to the fact that John Watson was just as worldly, and at times, just as breakable as the rest of the human race. If the Tube Incident taught him anything, it was that John was fragile.

Well, perhaps not John himself. John was a soldier, a warrior with a fearsome dark fury hidden away under the ordinary and affable exterior he presented to those around him. No not fragile at all, but _resilient._

What was fragile was this new thing they were cultivating between them as delicate a spun glass. John still struggled with trusting Sherlock completely like he used to since he came back from the dead. If he wasn't such a hopeless mess, he was certain John would have left long ago. As it were, John had thrown all that he was into fixing him, something that constantly had resentment surging against the barriers of Sherlock's pride. But every time he remembered that pained conversation between them in that horrid gap — John's pale face and delirious eyes —the resentment now faded into something else.

_It's never enough. Loving you…_

Guilt.

John knew deep down Sherlock could never be enough. He was broken. Irreparable no matter what Mycroft had said. In the end, he was sure John would come to his senses and realise that Sherlock was breaking _him_ now. If Sherlock was being completely honest with himself, he would say that he was constantly holding his breath for the inevitable. Probably had been for quite some time. Yet, no matter how hard he pressed, no matter how much of John he had destroyed that day when he deliberately left him behind, he was a constant in Sherlock's life, and would always,_always_ come back. It was astonishing, and it didn't make sense. Had it always been this way, or (as he suspected) was it because Sherlock was a project, a patient for the good doctor? A fallen comrade for the good soldier. He would have been fine to carry on if that was the case, but what occurred in that blasted tunnel turned all of Sherlock's assumptions upside down, rendering what he thought he knew about John Watson apart.

When had this all started for John, he wonders? His first reaction is and was to deny the possibility that anyone could become so loyal to him of all people so quickly. This suspicion haunted him from day one, and like always he kept John at arms length, convinced there was some ulterior motive. But John had stuck by him even when Sherlock tried to convince him he was a fraud, even when all the evidence pointed to the fact. He was loyal to the end, believing in what his heart said and not his head. It was such a sentimental declaration, and before, Sherlock would have sneered at such maudlin inclinations. But now…there was something to be said on behalf of John's stanch and unyielding belief that Sherlock was more than what he was. What he showed the world behind his walls of stoicism. John, from the start, saw what no one else saw.

_'People have killed for a lot less.'_

With a startled gasp Sherlock suddenly remembers the first time John looked at him with that curious expression. It was the night he shot Jefferson Hope without a scrap of remorse. When he had asked him why he would do such a thing over their respective plates of Chinese, John's only answer was to look right through him with those startlingly dangerous eyes edged with that now-familiar fire. He overlooked it, not having known the man very well at the time, but the more he thought about it, he realised there were other times where that look cropped up over and over, all out of sequence in his reeling mind, but stunningly clear nonetheless:

the night he came home after identifying the supposed body of Irene Adler;  
_'You okay?'  
'Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time.' (No I'm really not. Please don't leave.)_  
the first time he dared Sherlock to reach for his humanity during Moriarty's mad dance with the bombs;  
_'There are lives at stake, Sherlock — actual human lives…Just – just so I know, do you care about that at all?'  
'Heroes don't exist, John, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.' (I'm not the person you hope I am. That you wish I was.)_  
when he suspected the media favouritism would go pear-shaped and had warned him to take care;  
_'It really bothers you. What people say. About me? I don't understand. Why would it upset you?' (I don't understand, John. Help me understand.)_

and of course that night at the pool, John strapped in Semtex;  
_'Sherlock, run!'  
(Please god no.)_

That night was the cruelest and clearest of them all. It was the night someone had willingly surrendered their life in exchange for his own in the single most selfless act of sacrifice Sherlock had ever seen. Not even Mycroft had been able to do what John did when he was bleeding out on that dirt and grim cellar floor in Helsinki. It was that memory, that blessed _look_ in John's eyes that unbeknownst to him, changed Sherlock completely.

It was the reason why he stepped off that roof all those years ago.

It was the same reason why he was so afraid to lose John then, only he was too stupid (_stupid!_) to realise this reason had a name and it matched every line and caress of John's face whenever his eyes sank into Sherlock's core like thunder and pain, like joy and electricity all at the same time…

This reason was love.

In that instant, the knowledge that he had always loved John in equal measure fills the hollow cavern in his chest that had been carved into him long ago. Closing his eyes, he exhales a shaky breath that sounds like agony, because it _hurts,_ oh god does it hurt. In the three years he was away he hadn't let himself feel just how much it hurt to do what he did.

He hadn't let himself feel the breadth of his loneliness  
his aching mangled heart  
his failure sharp like iron on his tongue (why wasn't he clever enough to beat Moriarty some other way, _why?_)  
and his constant, driving fear that any day they would find him and end John's life…

His chest shudders as he inhales a ragged breath, and his arms wrap around John even tighter. He feels like every beat of his heart is like a spike between his ribs as if it had been atrophied for so long and was just now remembering to function.

A hand comes up and caresses his cheek, and Sherlock's eyes fly open.

"Sherlock?" John says, concern on his face. It's too much, and he slams his eyes shut again.

"Please, John," his voice is in tatters. "Don't _look_ at me like that."

"Sherlock, you're crying. Why are you crying?"

Confused, Sherlock brings a hand to his face and swipes at the wetness flowing down his cheeks. He doesn't remember how the tears got there.

Alarmed, John goes to sit up, but Sherlock holds him fast.

"No! Wait. Just – just…stay."

Despite this, John struggles up slightly, and Sherlock can feel him bracing himself with his elbow so he can get a proper look at him.

"Sherlock, look at me. Open your eyes, please," he pleaded gently, and brushed the hair back from his eyes.

"I can't," he says with determination even though his voice shakes.

"Why not?"

"Because. If I see you looking at me right now, looking at me like – like – I won't be able to stop myself."

"Stop yourself from what?"

He clenches his jaw in frustration, and grips John tighter still. Why doesn't he understand? "I will _ruin_ you, John. Don't you see? I don't know how not to destroy the things that are important to me."

John inhales sharply, and goes very still and very quiet. Sherlock is frozen, unable to open his eyes or move away. He raises his hand, and the top of his wrist bumps the underside of John's forearm which he grabs onto immediately. It must look like John has formed a cage around him — arm braced on the back of the couch, back to the rest of the room as he lays on his side facing Sherlock. Surprisingly, the knowledge that he's trapped against the couch and John doesn't cause him to panic like it probably should. Interesting.

Then, John dips his head a fraction, and Sherlock can feel his warm breath ghosting over his face and lips. It smells like tea and lemon. _John._

Without his meaning to, Sherlock's head tips back ever so slightly, seeking. Closing the distance between them, and a heady mixture of joy and mild panic rise to the surface as John surges forward, closing the gap.

And _oh._ He tastes the honey on John's lips, and swallows the startled gasp, not really sure who's throat it came from in the first place. A tingle runs down his spine when he feels John's tongue swipe along the seam of his mouth, and he relents yet pushes back with equal fervour. The kiss is a mixture of chastity and desperation, and unlike anything Sherlock has ever felt. It feels like possession. It feels like surrender…

He opens his eyes.

He freezes, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

He tears his lips away, and John's startled eyes flash open, confusion written all over his face.

"Sherlock…?" he starts, but trails off.

"Get off." He's surprised when his voice comes out strong and unyielding when everything inside of him is shattering apart.

John scrambles away, and sits on the coffee table while Sherlock rights himself and pushes back hard into the cushions in the hope of achieving some distance. John looks at him expectantly, elbows braced on his knees, and when it becomes apparent that Sherlock isn't going to speak he sighs heavily through his nose.

"What is it you want, Sherlock?" he says in such a defeated voice that it causes Sherlock's throat to constrict painfully. He can't speak, which is okay because John continues on after a moment. "I need to know where we stand, because you're right, we will ruin each other if either one of us is unsure of what we really want. I can't speak on behalf of you, but by now you should know where I stand. I don't want anything that you don't. If you want us to continue on the way things have been, that's – that's fine because I can do that. I just need to know." The words come out in a rush towards the end, and it sounds like John is having just as much trouble managing words as Sherlock is.

Before Sherlock can even think to respond, John stands and begins walking in the direction of his bedroom. He pauses at the door with his back still turned.

"Look, you don't have to come to a decision until after this case. Just…delete this. And get some sleep. It's late." He stands there a moment more before flexing his shoulders and ascending the stairs. Sherlock can hear the uneven distribution of his steps telling him that John's leg is acting up. It sounds like failure.

Sherlock doesn't sleep.

He sits there for a long while acutely aware of the thudding of his own heart. He tries to count the beats to distract himself, but it's not the same because the whole point of the exercise was to stop thinking about John, and all this does is remind him even more of that vibrant pulse he always longed to feel beneath his fingers.

Irritated, he gets up and makes his usual circuit around the flat. At first the familiarity of his _touchstones_ is a comfort until he realises that pretty much every one of them save the microscope and the skull, are items that they either both share, or are solely John's. Like that bloody ashtray and the dented kettle. He nearly growls in frustration.

What does he want?

He sneers at the question. As if it was a choice. As if he could simply _stop_ himself from feeling the way he does. Like a switch. Preposterous. He is a slave to the chemicals in his head. Oxytocin, dopamine — reactions in his brain that scream at him that he can't live without John, that he would die if John were to leave. Sherlock knows about addiction, and how chemical reactions such as these ensnare a person into their vicious cycle. It's a wonder they haven't outlawed love, seeing as how it alters a person's brain chemistry just as potently.

_'Love is a much more vicious motivator.'_

How has anything thus far been his design when a large part of his actions are motivated by what he feels for John Watson? It's more than a large part, actually. The pull towards this man is like gravity and all eclipsing. Everything he has now belongs to John.

Everything. Regardless of if John even wanted it. Regardless of if Sherlock had chosen. As if he had a bloody _choice._

_If he had a choice would he take it back?_

The thought is dark and insidious, and it slips into his mind unbidden like a cancer. It makes his stomach turn.

Would he take it back if he were free of John? Would he have let him die?

This frightens him, and for once he is relieved he has absolutely no way of knowing the answer. His breath suddenly stutters in his throat, and he is consumed with the desperate need to make sure John's okay. As quiet as he can, he takes the stairs to John's room two at a time.

Like usual, the door is three quarters of the way closed, and from where he stands, he can see the foot of John's bed silhouetted in the hall light. He pushes it open just wide enough for him to slip in, and with cat-like grace makes it to the side. In the dim light, Sherlock can see John's prone form. Even though there doesn't seem to be any nightmares tonight, it is clear that John's sleeping is anything but restful. He tosses and turns quiet a bit, but he doesn't cry out. Taking a chance, Sherlock sits on the very edge of the bed and watches him for a while. He doesn't know if his presence really makes a difference, but he liked to think it was so when John finally settled into a deep sleep, the lines of tension finally smoothed from his face.

_'What is it you want Sherlock?'_

Sherlock slowly stands as if his limbs are made of lead. He bends over and presses his lips lightly against the shell of John's ear.

"I'm trying, John. I just can't lose myself," he whispers, and silently walks back to his room.

They hardly speak to each other for three days after this. The ache in Sherlock's chest is devastating.

-oOo-

It is just past eleven when Sherlock barges into John's room unannounced.

"Oi!" John shouts, in the middle of dressing down for the night. "You could have knocked, you sod!" (Not in a good mood it looks like. Achy shoulder, achy leg it seems.)

"Get your clothes back on. Lestrade needs us," Sherlock replies perfunctorily, and turns on his heel just as John starts to grumble.

John takes longer than usual, and Sherlock manages to check the light, the door, and the stove four times before he finally comes down.

"All right, so what's this about?" John says, throwing on his shoes.

"It's Marx. He's been found dead in his flat over in Harrow."

They pound down the stairs, both of them trying not to act like excited schoolboys at the prospect of a murder. Sherlock revels in the fact that John craves the morbid danger just as much as he does even if he won't admit it outright.

In the cab it's quiet at first, the pair of them simply basking in the delicious anticipation of The Game. This is Sherlock's favourite part; the excitement.

"Do you think it was Powell?" John finally asks.

"I _know_ it was Powell," Sherlock says, turning to catch the gleam of curiosity in John's eye. "It was only a matter of time before Marx cheated him out of the money. And with Powell as unstable as he is, it's obvious that he would eventually come after him."

"Well isn't this a clusterfuck of a nightmare?" John says with a contrary gleeful lit to his tone. Instantly the awkwardness and tension that had been building between them melted away.

Sherlock can't contain the matching grin that bursts forth on his face. "It's _brilliant._"

…

"My God," John says in a low voice as they both look down at the corpse of Royall Marx. Or what was left of it.

The man was dressed down to his pants and a tee shirt laying face down in front of the fireplace, a bloodied iron poker on the hearth next to him. His head had been bashed in quite severely.

"Murder weapon," Anderson says confidently as he snaps a picture of the poker. The flash and whine of the camera sets Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"Anderson, you really are on _sparkling form_ tonight, but can you go stand in the corner and let the adults do their work?" Sherlock bites out waspishly, and for once is pleased that Lestrade agrees with him.

"Let him work, Anderson," he says with a sigh. Anderson storms off, and Sherlock can't help but be delighted when he catches John trying to repress a giggle.

"John, can you have a look?" he says, flicking open his magnifying glass and inspecting the elastic indentations around Marx's shins. John crouches down.

"Jesus," he says immediately. His face takes on a slightly greenish tint. "The blows to the head aren't what killed him."

"What?" Sherlock says, and snaps the magnifier shut.

"Well, I mean, he would have succumbed eventually, but he most likely drowned from laying face down in a pool of his own blood. There's just so much of it." He shakes his head sadly and rises in tandem with Sherlock.

"Time of death?"

"No more than and hour I would say."

"I'm inclined to agree. He'd barely taken off his socks and shoes before Powell showed up." Sherlock steps over the body, mindful of the blood, and inspects the large Rembrant replica over the mantle.

"And you're sure it was Powell? Not one of his debtors?" Lestrade asks, looking up from his notepad.

"Yes. It's obvious. Marx had dealings with Charles Milverton. The rumours are that Milverton is infamous for being able to blackmail anybody. After Marx wouldn't relinquish the winnings from the casino job, he must have known Powell would try to take matters into his own hands so to secure himself he hired Milverton to procure something on Powell." He runs his latex-clad finger along the edge of the painting.

"And you know this because…?"

"His sock indents, Lestrade!"

"Sock indents?" John asks bewildered.

"Yes," Sherlock snipes, turning away from the mantle. "He'd only just come in from his dubious dealings. The man is rarely out past seven o'clock, but the fact that his socks had only been removed an hour prior, it's clear that he had a few loose ends to tie up. Not to mention he was killed in front of the fireplace having just opened the safe."

"Safe?" Lestrade blinks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and whips back around. He swings the picture forward and presents the room with the small black wall safe hidden behind it.

John shakes his head with an amused smile as if he were remembering a private joke. "Sock indents! Novel."

"John."

"Hm?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What? Oh. Out loud?" he asks sheepishly. A great swell of fondness blooms in Sherlock's chest.

"Yes."

"Sorry."

"It's fine." They share a silent moment between each other.

Lestrade looks between the two of them utterly flummoxed. He clears his throat. "Ah yes. So er, can you crack the safe then?"

Sherlock turns his attention back to the situation. "Yes, easily. But there's nothing in it. Powell would have cleared it out. But you're not asking the right questions, Inspector!"

"Enlighten me," he says dryly.

"The real question is, what could possibly be more scandalous than the fact that he committed grand larceny and murdered two people requiring him to kill a third to prevent the information from getting out?"

"I dunno. What?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaims with glee. "What ever it is, Marx would have likely made copies. Chances are, that's where Powell is headed: to gather the remaining evidence. If Marx was really clever, which he was, he'd have spread the copies out in multiple locations. I'm guessing at each one of his casinos. In an hour he would have managed two of them: the _Gent's Corner Casino_, and the _Lucky Topper_, saving the one in South Kensington for last. We should go now; it may be our only chance."

Lestrade flips his notepad closed and nods sharply. "Right then, you can come, but you leave the apprehending to me and my men, got it? Anderson, finish with the scene; Donovan, with me."

"John and I will get a cab behind you, come on John!"

In a flurry, they all descended the stairs and burst out into the courtyard each heading in their separate directions. Sherlock's hand shoots in the air, and a taxi comes around the corner to a stop. Before he gets in, Lestrade shouts at them before entering his squad car.

"I mean it you two. You are civilians, and under no circumstance should you pursue Powell. He's violent and clearly off his head."

"Yes, we heard you!" Sherlock yells petulantly while simultaneously shoving John into the cab. "Now get on with it before you lose him!"

Sherlock slams the door while rattling off the address, and flops back against the back seat as Lestrade's car goes screaming past. He crosses his arms, and jiggles his leg, before barking at the cabbie to go faster.

"Sherlock take it easy!" John says, placing a hand on his bouncing knee. "We got him. Or rather Lestrade will sort it all out. The point is: Powell is going down because you cracked it. Brilliantly I might add."

"Assuming they aren't too slow or incompetent to get the job done," Sherlock scoffs belligerently.

"Yeah, yeah," John relents with a small smile indulging him in his sulk.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stares out the window, trying not to harass the cabbie again. His forehead hits the window with a dull _thunk_ and his eyes track the other cars one by one, trying to deduce the drivers by their habits (pulling to the left – texting no doubt; this one needs an alignment and new brakes – owner recently unemployed; this one a garish shade of puce – university student etc. etc. etc.) when a billboard about the Westfield Mall catches his eye, and he suddenly shoots straight up in his seat.

"Get on the 406 and take us to Stratford!" he shouts at the cabbie, making the poor man curse liberally as the taxi swerves and just makes the turn.

"What? Why?" John asks, startled.

"He won't be there, _god_ why didn't I see it before? Stupid. _Stupid_." Sherlock growls at himself.

"See what?"

"Get on the phone, call Lestrade," he says pulling out his own mobile and pulling up the internet. "Tell him that Powell won't be there, he'll be at the one in the Westfield Mall: the one that Royall Marx was in the middle of building. The last bit, he would have kept it in the abandoned casino away from police and other prying eyes once the indictments began to go undeway. That's where the original will be as well."

John doesn't ask any more questions, and hits Lestrade's number on speed dial while Sherlock flicks through a set of blueprints for the new _Up in Spades_ casino.

"It keeps ringing out," John says with frustration. "His siren must be too loud. I'm going to try dispatch; you should keep trying his mobile."

Sherlock dials a few times getting the same result until the signal seems to thin out, and he grits his teeth. "Straight to voice mail."

John is also having difficulties, and he nearly throws his phone in aggravation before disconnecting and slamming it down against the seat. "Bastard fucking dispatch! What is it good for if they can't even manage to bloody connect a person in a damn fucking emergency?"

"Explicit, John. Bravo. I think I can hear the English Language weeping for her lost eloquence," Sherlock snaps, wound just as tightly.

"Sod off! This is the way it was last time, and I think I deserve to say whatever I want about the wankers," he shoots right back.

"I told you they were incompetent. Wait. Last time? What do you mean last time?"

John looks at him with a hard expression. "The night when you went haring off with that insane cabbie. I was trying to get a hold of Greg, and the only thing I had to go on was 999. They didn't seem to understand the situation, and they put me on hold. Good thing I had that GPS thing or else…" he trails off abruptly and looks out the window.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John's sudden shift. It occurs to him that for John, this night was akin to Sherlock's Semtex night: it was the night where Sherlock was taken hostage while John was helpless but to watch. He remembers what that fear is like. Paralysing and cold.

"Yes, well…bastard fucking dispatch indeed."

John doesn't say anything to this, but Sherlock catches his small smile in the reflection of the dark window. They both spend the rest of the ride in anxious silence.

…

After breaking into the Westfield Mall, and jimmying open the door to the service stairs, Sherlock and John pound their way through the dark, unfinished lobby of the casino. Sherlock stops suddenly, barely noticing when John bumps into him, and puts his hands up to either side of his head as he pulls out the memory of the blueprints he just accessed. The image is fresh and sparkling in his mind's-eye, and before long he locates the upper level where Marx's office would be.

"Come on, John!" he says and takes off around a polished replica of a Roman column, and thunders up the stairs, John in hot pursuit. When they near the top, they slow down, and try to be as silent as possible.

The upper level is even more unfinished than the rest. It's dusty with drywall, and large swaths of plastic hang from metal rafters, sectioning off the various rooms. In the dim fluorescent strips of emergency lighting, the shadows mixed caused Sherlock to become a bit disoriented.

"Careful," Sherlock intones lowly.

John nods and they make their way down the bare corridor. A moment later, John plucks at Sherlock's sleeve, and hands him a length of rebar he found from a pile of scrap on the floor. Makeshift weapons in hand, they creep up to the first door, which luckily doesn't have a doorknob yet, and John pushes it open silently. They are greeted with blank walls and abandoned cans of paint. They move on, alternating from room to room until Sherlock comes to a door that has the placard SECURITY tacked to it. He motions for John to follow, and he quietly shoulders open the door.

They are met with the beginnings of a high-tech surveillance station, and the acrid warm smell of whirring processors. Against the wall is a cluster of screens, all off except the one in the middle that hums with flickering blankness. Sherlock stops to examine it while John makes his way to the door at the back of the room that's slightly ajar.

Sherlock adjusts a knob, and the previously white standby screen stutters to life, and immediately begins its cycle, various locations flash before him, until one catches his eye: the lobby.

His head snaps up in time to see John pull open the door across from him.

He doesn't even get a chance to warn him when the sound of a gunshot shatters the silence.

His vision narrows as his mind speed up

The gunshot. He wasn't sure if he heard it or felt it. Everything slows, and he zeros in on John's face cataloguing every detail in crystal clarity:

Confusion – mouth open in surprise, brow furrowed  
Pain – like a wave crashing over him; blinking rapidly  
Sorrow – 'I'm sorry' glittering in his impossible blue / hazel eyes as he falls…

One gun. John's gun even (like some ridiculous Greek tragedy)(hysteria at this point) trained directly at his heart. One bullet. _(The one I couldn't stop.)_

Like his dream. _(Oh please be a dream.)_ But real. Stark and horrible and real.

Sherlock watches as John seems to fall in slow motion, his eyes closing as he continues to arc backwards almost gracefully through the air until he lands on his side, deathly still and facing away.

It is the clatter of the iron rebar that brings everything back to normal speed, and with a feral cry, Sherlock launches himself over the surveillance desk, desperate to get at John. John who's not moving. He ends up tripping on a bundle of wire, and before he can right himself, a cold and crazed voice shouts:

"Stay where you are, or I swear I will shoot you in the goddam head!"

Sherlock hears the click of the hammer, and he raises his hands in immediate surrender.

"All right! All right!" he yells, and Powell emerges from the shadows of the dark room, gun raised and pointed directly at him. He steps over John, and walks right up to Sherlock and presses the barrel of the gun to his forehead.

"I should have _fucking_ shot you when I had the chance!" he snarls.

"Yes, probably," Sherlock says, trying to get a look at John from around Powell's legs. He doesn't know what condition he's in, and he's running out of time. For once his mind is on the brink of truly spiraling out of control due to panic, and with all the will power he can summon, he forces himself to think of a way out. "As it is, the police will be here any minute. Are you sure you want to add two more people to your body count?" He pulls his head back a little to try and get a good look at the man, but all he can see is his trembling hand, and the butt of the gun.

_Oh._

_John's_ gun. He does a quick calculation in his head.

"Shut up!" Powell spits. "Do you think that matters? I'm a dead man anyway!"

Something clicks in his mind. "You couldn't find it could you? The original – video file was it? And I'm guessing it's on a timed release. If Marx doesn't check in with such and so person, the file will be distributed. A lot of good, that. Seeing as how you killed him. No doubt if this is uncovered the people you work for will have your head."

"Shut up, shut up!" Powell shrieks, pressing harder with the gun. He's about ready to break, and Sherlock's fury sustains him to push the deranged man over the edge.

"Well you're bloody well out of time, Powell!" he roars. "And you know what else? You're out of _bullets_ too."

Before Powell has a chance to react, Sherlock lunges and tackles the man to the ground where he hits his head on the concrete with a loud smack. But Powell is a strong man, and quite insane with rage, and he throws Sherlock off enough to pin him. The other man is predictable, however, and Sherlock knees him in the groin just as he tries to get his fingers around Sherlock's neck. Suddenly free, Sherlock scrabbles for John's rebar, and almost has his hand on it when he is forcefully dragged back by his foot, causing him to fall forward and hit is chin hard on the floor.

Dazed, he tries to get up, but he is roughly flipped onto his back, and Powell's knees pin his arms securely to the cold ground. Suddenly, he is being garroted with a piece of thick wire, the plastic digging into the delicate skin of his throat as Powell bares his weight down from above, fists on either side of Sherlock's neck.

"I'm not a murderer," he whispers close to Sherlock's face. Sherlock's vision is darkening, and his legs thrash in panic at the lack of oxygen. "I did what I did to _survive_."

Just then, a dark shadow appears above them, and before Sherlock can even register what's going on, two strong, tanned hands wrap around Powell's chin and forehead, and with an unnatural twist and a sickening pop the man crumples to the ground.

The pressure is torn away from Sherlock's throat, and he tries to take a breath, but for some reason he can't get the air into his lungs.

His eyes are bleary with tears and grey spots and tiny bursts of light. He brings his hands up to his throat, convinced there is still something wrapped tightly around it, cutting off his windpipe, but there is nothing. He is slipping…

Suddenly, there are warm hands on his pulling them away from their frantic clawing, and he tries to see through the increasing darkness.

"…listen to me. Sherlock?" John's voice comes to him as if through a layer of cotton. He feels his hands on his neck, and they gently start to massage his bruised skin. "Your throat is going through spasms, you need to focus and breathe with me."

Confused he reaches out, and grabs onto firm shoulders. "Jo – John?"

"Stay with me. That's it. Deep breath, can you try?" John continues to massage his neck, and Sherlock manages to take a deep creaking gasp. "Good, Sherlock. That's good."

The relief is intense, almost too much, and a stabbing sensation takes up residence immediately between his eyes, but he can't help the joy that threatens to burst out of his chest. He grips tighter, and he breathes again and again, each breath coming out more and more like a laugh or sob, he doesn't know.

"John._ John_," he croaks over and over, and runs his hands through his sandy hair and over his face, not entirely trusting what he sees. John catches one of his hands, and kisses his palm.

"I've got you. I'm here," he whispers, a few tears falling from his eyes. The wail of a siren echoes in the distance, and John helps Sherlock up to a sitting position.

Frantically, Sherlock runs his hands over John's chest and his fingers run along the hole in John's jumper. The hole is directly over his heart, and when Sherlock prods it, he feels a lump.

"Wh —?" he tires, but his voice gives out, reedy and wretched.

John looks down and runs his hand over the place where the bullet seems to have magically disappeared, and with a knowing look he reaches under his collar and drags a chain out from under his jumper. They clink and clatter in the half-light, and Sherlock can't believe what he sees because, technically according to physics, it's completely impossible. But there they are, glinting in John's outstretched palm: a pair of spectacularly dented army dog tags. He traces the near perfect impression of a bullet with awe.

"I started wearing them again, after I saw you one night," John says quietly and Sherlock's gaze meets his. "I watched you bring them up to your lips so carefully as if it brought you pain, and I didn't know what to make of it other than it meant something important to you. So I started wearing them under my clothes every day after that."

"Charmed." Sherlock whispers. "That's twice now. Very selfish, that dying lark."

John chuckles, and brushes his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. "Well I had to get one up on you, didn't I?"

Sherlock chuckles back ignoring the pain in his neck and closes his eyes. For the first time, everything is clear and stable in his mind, and a peace he's not felt before settles through out him. He is whole, and suddenly so very full.

When he opens his eyes again, and his silver irises cascade with dark blue, he knows exactly what he wants, and he is not afraid. He leans in and presses his lips to John's, and for once, everything is as it should be.

* * *

**Thanks for sticking with me. Comments and helpful suggestions are most welcome!**


	10. Epilogue - Catharsis: It's All Fine

**AN: The End! I really enjoyed writing this, and thank you all again for taking the time to read!**

**By the way, the piece that Sherlock plays is Chopin's Nocturne. It's lovely. You should look up the Sarah Chang version on YouTube. :D**

* * *

He should have left it alone the minute his suspicions were confirmed. He should have for John's sake, but he's Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, and he has to know everything.

It wasn't hard to find the flash drive that Marx had hidden away, and when they discovered it was encrypted, Sherlock was only too happy to lend his expertise. It only took him a day to uncover what Powell fought so hard to have erased.

It was a collection of video files, timestamps dating back at least a decade of one particular girl being tortured and raped mercilessly. From the looks of it, she was probably about twelve in the first video. The last video was brutal, and led to the injuries that caused her eventual death.

_"Jesus,"_ Lestrade says, horror and disgust warring on his face.

"Her name is Sophia Stanson: Powell's sister. Chances are her father had an outstanding debt with the Burkov Family. Lestrade, your suspicions with the Russian Mafia were correct. There were several nefarious bank accounts leading back to Stanson. You only have to look at the paper trail. When he couldn't pay back Burkov back, he signed a contract that essentially sold his daughter into slavery. The brothers knew about this, especially Powell, who filmed the endeavour. He knew that if the footage was ever compromised he would be killed out right." Sherlock finishes with a triumphant lit to his voice.

"She — she was barely in her twenties," John says, his face ashen, and Sherlock frowns at him slightly. John puts a hand over his mouth and turns away from where they were all looking at the deplorable footage around Lestrade's desk. He walks a few paces, and his right leg suddenly gives out on him. He falls hard to one knee, panting harshly through his mouth and nose.

Sherlock is at his side in an instant with the waste bin, and John snatches it, and retches painfully.

"I'll…go get some water," Lestrade says at Sherlock's discomfiting gaze, and he quietly leaves. When John finishes, he scoots himself back to rest against the desk, tenting his knees upward and resting his head in his hands. He continues to breathe in through his nose and out gustily through his mouth. After a few minutes, Sherlock slides down to the floor next to him, not entirely sure what to do.

"I saw a girl who looked like that back in Afghanistan." John says suddenly. "She was strung up by her wrists the same way. They turned her body into a bomb by sewing a block of C4 into her abdominal cavity. She was still alive…" he trails off as a hysterical laugh verging on a sob claws its way out of his throat.

Sherlock closes his eyes, his heart sinking at the realisation of what's to come. At the realisation that the thing that comes next will _hurt_ John. He forgets that things like this tear him apart in ways that Sherlock doesn't understand.

"I am so, so sorry," he says thumping his head back against the desk, annoyed at how inadequate it sounds. He can't bring himself to look at him even though he can feel those deep blue eyes raking over his face.

"What do you mean?" John says warily, sensing something amiss. When Sherlock still doesn't look at him, he says more forcefully, his voice wrecked. "_Sherlock._ What do you mean?"

Turning to face him, Sherlock says as gently as he can, "This file…there's a chance that it will be seen as inadmissible in court."

John's face darkens as a terrible wrath reminiscent of thunder and dark scathing night crashes over him. _"What?"_

"There's no real evidence tying the Burkov Family to Sophia's death, and digital data is under such scrutiny in the courts that it is doubtful even after authenticating the footage it would ever be presentable enough to be used in a trial."

"Fuck," John swears scrubbing a hand over his face. "But there are other things we can do right? There's bound to be more _contracts_," he spits the word out like something vile, "out there. More girls…" Sherlock presses his lips into a grim line.

"The Burkov Family is incredibly wealthy. This wouldn't be the first time they have avoided legal consequences."

A dangerous stillness settles over John before he snaps, and bolts to his feet. He's out the door before Sherlock has time to react. He recovers quickly, and bangs through the office just as Lestrade walks in with a couple glasses of water.

"Oi! What's —?"

Sherlock ignores him and runs after John, calling his name. He doesn't catch up with him until they are both on the street, John's measured and angry strides attempting to distance himself from everyone and everything.

"John!" Sherlock calls again, attempting to grab John's arm. He throws him off violently.

"Back _off_ Sherlock," he shouts, jaw clenching, teeth bared.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock insists, not letting him leave with out an answer.

"I don't know! Away! From here, just – I need air I can't fucking breathe. Goddammit, _God. Damn. It._ This is what I fought a _fucking war_ for?" he explodes.

John paces lividly on the pavement out side NSY, the brutal soldier thrumming beneath the previously unassuming exterior. His enigma, his puzzle — _his John_. John who had seen unforgiving desert sand, and torture, and was the very definition of mercy. John ached at the fact that this girl, Sophia, never even knew what the word meant, and for once, Sherlock understands. Pride and a sense of devastating awe run through him as he regards his Army Doctor. The fact there was a John Watson in the world that would gladly shoulder the burdens of the lost, and even kill for them made his own experiences bearable. But there's sadness there too. _How can one man have such a big heart and not burn out from grief?_ (How do you do that, John? Tell me?)

They stand there in silence for a moment, Sherlock waiting, and John warring within himself. Finally Sherlock steps back with reluctance, his palms open in surrender even though what he really wants to do is draw him into a strong embrace. But that's not what John needs. He's beginning to see these things now, the complexities and paradoxes of being a Doctor and a Soldier.

"I'll be back at the flat," he says quietly instead. "Don't be gone for too long. It's going to rain tonight."

John nods briefly, relief and gratitude easing some of the tension out of his avid frame. Without anything further, Sherlock watches John walk away to clear his head, and notices that his strides, if a little dogged, are steady and even…

-oOo-

John had been too lost in his own head to register when exactly his thoughts shifted from blinding anger to dense hopelessness. Or when is started to rain for that matter. By the state of his clothes he'd been out in it a while apparently. So with a weary sigh he makes his way back to Baker Street, grimacing at the return of that hateful hitch in his step, haunting him all the way.

He trudges up the steps to their flat twenty minutes later, wet, achy, and desperate for something hot to drink. He would drink a whole kettle if he thought it would warm the chill that settled deep in his bones. He hangs up his wet jacket, and pauses on his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock is curled up in his arm chair in his pyjamas and dressing gown, violin in his lap. He plays something silently, the pads of his fingers making soft clinking noises as they drum against the fingerboard. The firelight plays almost lovingly with the sharp angles of his face making him look soft and really quite…beautiful. John forgoes the tea, opting to sit in front of Sherlock instead.

"Will you play it for me?" he asks after a moment. Sherlock looks at him almost as if he hadn't realised John had come in, which in all honestly was probably the case. The dreaminess in his mercurial gaze causes a bust of affection to run through him.

Sherlock regards him, a question shimmering in his eyes. He decides not to say anything however and simply gets to his feet, plucking the bow off the mantle. He runs his thumb over the taut hairs at the frog three times before lowering his shoulders and tucking the Strad beneath his chin. There is a pause as he closes his eyes, letting the melody in his head fill him. Then with a deep breath he launches into the music.

The piece starts off heartbreakingly sad, causing John to sigh as he watches the man before him bend and sway, threading himself through each line and phrase. When the music dips down into the dark umber tones of melancholy, Sherlock does too, his eyes closing almost as if in pain. The melody tapers off with a heartrending sigh before it takes on a subtle more sanguine tone. It's light and buoyant like the beginning of spring and Sherlock sways almost airily on the balls of his feet. The music darkens again, but this time is it laced with sadness and joy in equal measure. His slender fingers dance over the silver strings, and his eyes stay open, locked on John's. He captures the final poignant note as one would steal a kiss from the corner of their lover's mouth, and John lets it sink into him like a balm.

He rises slowly to his feet as Sherlock puts the violin back in its case. He stays facing the window as John comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist reveling in the simple fact that he's allowed to do this now. He presses his forehead into a silk clad shoulder blade and sighs. Sherlock's hands come up and wrap around his, his thumb massaging slow circles into John's wrist.

"I'm sorry I left like that," John says after a while, and Sherlock turns in his arms so he can look into his face. He looks like he wants to say something, but for the second time thinks better of it. It's so unlike Sherlock to hold back in this regard, that John frowns. "What is it?"

"I don't understand. You were fine and now you're not. What's changed?"

"No I'm all right now. I just needed to get some air."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and steps out of the circle of John's arms. "No, you — you're limping again. Most likely started to on your way home which accounts for the fact you took the long way back in order to avoid Vernon Street due to its incline."

"Yeah? So I've got a dodgy leg. That's not been news," John says pinching the bridge of his nose. Irritation and exhaustion prickle under his skin. He flops down into his chair.

"But you were fine when you left," he states as if John were being particularly slow.

"Fine? I was fine?" John remarks edgily. "I was a lot of things, but _fine_ wasn't one of them."

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace as if John was an interesting case. "Yes, you were fine. Maybe not emotionally, but you had no trouble walking which is odd due to the fact that the details of Sophia Stanson's murder were most distressing."

"You could say that," John bites out, his patience thinning.

Sherlock continues as if he hadn't heard him. "This is counterintuitive to how your psyche usually operates. In the past it was the emotional turmoil that affected your leg "

"Stop," John says, feeling stripped and exposed under those sharp eyes that see bloody everything. He wouldn't be surprised if one day he would wake up to the sight of Sherlock picking him a part with a pair of forceps and a scalpel. Sherlock ignores him and prattles on.

"— but now the pattern is undefined. There is something I'm missing. Some reason _why_ I haven't fixed you yet."

"I'm not broken, Sherlock," John says his temper rising.

"Then why isn't it working like last time?" he snaps as if it were all John's fault.

"You know what?" John says jumping to his feet and closing the distance between them in two easy strides. He tries to get partway around Sherlock who is currently blocking the path between him and his room. "I'm not going to try and explain my damaged _psyche_ to you just so you can dissect it under a microscope like some bloody experiment. I'm going to bed, now will you please move?"

Instead of moving, Sherlock grips him by the shoulders. He looks into John's face, then down at his feet, a gleam in his eye. Recognition crosses his face as the pieces fall in line. "Oh. I see now. You're angry."

"Bravo. Deduction of the century, that. Now let me go."

"No not just now, John. You're _angry all the time_," he emphasises. "Why didn't I see it before? It's so obvious. You're angry at _me_."

John takes a step back as if he had been struck by a blow. Sherlock's gleeful expression sobers and he levels a knowing look at John.

"You're angry for what I did. For dying," he says.

John stands there clenching and unclenching his fists as fury courses through him. Yes. He is angry; beyond angry in fact. But he refuses to admit it and looks away.

"Oh. You won't admit it to yourself because you see that there's no point. Am I right?"

"Sherlock," John warns. He can't even keep his own thoughts from the madman.

"I am right. But you're not just angry I left. That's only part of it."

"Stoppit," he grits out taking a step closer to Sherlock.

"What you're really mad at is the fact that I didn't come back sooner," he says almost cruelly. John is breathing hard now, his fingernail cutting into his palms from how tightly he's clenching his fists. Sherlock dips his head so their noses are almost touching. "'One more miracle, Sherlock.' Isn't that what you asked me?"

The realisation hits him like a lorry, breaking through the barriers of his self-control. John's vision goes red, and he lunges, slamming Sherlock back into the wall.

"You were there? You were _there?_" he yells.

"I was."

"While I stood at your grave and _begged_ you just fucking watched? Goddammit, Sherlock!"

"You're angry," Sherlock says with a tone that could almost be close to delight. This boils John's blood even more.

"You're goddam right I'm fucking angry! Three years, Sherlock. You left me for three years! You were dead. To me. Gone. For _three years_. Oh god. Oh _god_. And then I find out you didn't die, oh no, worse than that. You were exiled, forced into hiding, sent out all alone without anyone to protect you. You had to kill people. Something that you should have never had to do. You were _tortured_ for fuck's sake and it was all my goddam fault!"

Sherlock's expression changed from being profoundly startled to immensely confused over the course of his tirade. John releases him and spins around, not able to look into those pleading eyes a second more. Those eyes that have seen far too much. Those eyes that John wanted to spare from the brutality of war. He wasn't able to spare him in the end. He failed. In this, he is most angry at himself.

"John…" Sherlock says aghast. John doesn't move. He can't move. He's convinced he's turning to stone right where he stands. A cool hand wraps itself gently around his wrist and turns him around. It's too much effort to raise his gaze from the floor. "John. Listen to me because I'm only ever going to say this once. I will never regret what happened. Do you hear me? Never. What I did kept you alive —"

"Yeah but at what cost, Sherlock?" he says wretchedly finally looking up.

"I had to keep you, John! Don't you see?" Sherlock says vehemently. "I had to keep you because you kept _me_ alive long before I even realised it. Maybe that's selfish of me, but I don't care. I am a selfish man and always have been. You. Are. _Mine_. And I regret nothing." He practically growls the words at the end, a predatory and determined sound rumbling in his chest. Before John can react to this, Sherlock's lips suddenly crash into his, fierce and demanding.

It's nothing like their other kisses; it is jagged and hard, both of them unyielding, teeth clicking together. John presses back even harder forcing Sherlock back up against that wall for an entirely different reason as anger gives way to desire. He nips at Sherlock's bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock that he swallows as if he were dying of thirst. He pulls back suddenly, the fire in his chest making it feel like he is going to come undone at the seams. He presses his forehead against Sherlock's steady heart and breathes deeply.

"You keep me alive too, Sherlock. Before you there was nothing."

Sherlock gently guides John away so he can look into his face. The most awe inspiring expression comes over him, full of such raw vulnerability and unprecedented joy it takes John's breath away.

"I love you, John," he says with a mixture of bewilderment and wonder.

And in that moment, John wants to laugh out loud or cry or both he's not sure, but it doesn't matter because all that ever does matter is here, present in his arms, alive and infuriating and wonderful all at the same time.

"I love you too," he says, a grin spreading over his face. Sherlock's forehead touches his, and they breathe each other's air. Before him, John can see their lives: full of danger and laughter and yes, pain, because life is full of it — for years and years to come. Tears fill his eyes when he pictures them old and grey, perhaps living in the country somewhere, and it is transcendent. In that moment he knows, he _knows_ he has been rendered as only half a person until now. They both have.

Sherlock fills the emptiness inside him. They fill the emptiness inside each other.

They live and run and solve crime.

John doesn't limp anymore.

And it's all fine.

FIN


End file.
